


We Could be Heroes (Me and You)

by alby_mangroves, Chiyume



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Art, Blow Jobs, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Bucky doesn't deal well with showers, Coffee addict Bucky, Drug Withdrawal, Edging, Frotting, Gentle bath times, Illustrated, M/M, Metal Arm Kink, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Post-WS semi-canon compliant, Recovered Memories, References to Drugs, Sexual arrangements, Sexworker Steve, Sharon Carter Is a Good Bro, Suicidal Thoughts and Depression caused by withdrawal from Hydra drugs, Ticklish Bucky, Withdrawal from drugs induced by Hydra, escort steve, shrinkyclinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-19 03:45:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 90,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14865999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alby_mangroves/pseuds/alby_mangroves, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiyume/pseuds/Chiyume
Summary: When the Asset drags himself out of the Potomac River after the battle of the Triskelion, something has changed.There is a presence inside his head that wasn't there before; one that speaks directly to his most primal instincts, and it speaks only of one thing:To run. Run now, run fast, and to never, ever stop.And so, the Asset does.A story of recovery, of facing one's inner demons, and learning to accept the harsh truths of life. Of love, and the many different shapes it can take. The value of choice and free will, and how someone who doesn't believe themselves worthy of being saved can end up being someone else's hero.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a collab with, and Inspired by the wonderful artwork of the lovely and talented Alby Mangroves [ Tumblr ](http://artgroves.tumblr.com/), [Ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alby_Mangroves) for the [Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2018](https://capreversebb.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta by the amazing, encouraging, and dependable [leveragehunters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monkeygreen/pseuds/leveragehunters) <3
> 
> NOTE: This fic contains descriptions of withdrawal from non-consensual HYDRA-administered heavy drugs, mentions of graphic withdrawal symptoms which lead to temporary depression, suicidal ideation and food issues. The story also features mentions of paranoia, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and anxiety. There are mentions of past abuse, but these are memories and take place out of story. Please take care and mind the tags.
> 
> That said, we hope that the above won't discourage you from reading this story, and that you'll enjoy this just as much as we've enjoyed creating it.

 

The Asset stumbles.

The fall has him losing his balance, and he lands with a hiss, braced on one knee in the riverside gravel. It’s a clumsy movement; unrefined and inept. It’s _weakness,_ and so the Asset grits his teeth and forces himself to stand up. He’s still too close to what used to be the Triskelion to stop moving. There are choppers in the air above his head, hidden by the trees. They can’t see him, but this is not the time to take risks by lingering in the same place for too long.

His arm is broken; a fractured humerus, he suspects. But despite the pain, he knows it won’t stay that way for long. Readily, he pulls the average healing period of an adult male from the back of his mind as he staggers along the riverbank. He does a quick equation.

For a normal person, a fractured humerus means three months in a cast or possible surgery. For him; two weeks in a sling. Maybe three, if it’s a spiral fracture. Which means he’ll be at a severe disadvantage in any attack for the next five days.

A groan pushes itself up his throat, both from frustration and pain as he steps over a fallen tree trunk. His tac gear is soaked, his guns are empty, a spare three rounds in his Sig Sauer, and his broken arm throbs with every move he makes. He needs to find a secure location to realign the bones. If he leaves it for too long, there’s a risk the fracture will start to heal askew.

A nearby bridge abutment serves the purpose as well as any. The Asset settles with his back against the concrete pillar just as one of the helicopters makes another turn across the river. Unbuckling his back holster, he slides the straps off before pulling his glove off his metal hand with his teeth. As the helicopter circles back over the bridge, he bites down on the leather of the glove, braces himself, and sets the bones.

It hurts.

He’ll live.

He quickly fashions his discarded holster into a sling around his neck and chest, and carefully brings his forearm into the cradle of it. It’s not perfect, and he’s going to have to redo it later, but it works.

Bringing metal fingers to the side of his head, the Asset hisses again at the sharp pain that sears through his skull at the touch. When he pulls his hand back to look, his fingers are coated in blood. That’s not good.

Goddamn metal beam. If only he had been quicker…

He pushes the thought away with another groan as he forces himself back onto his feet. There’s no point lingering on past mistakes now. The Triskelion lies in ruins, as do the three SHIELD Helicarriers they’d been sent there to commandeer. The mission has failed. The highest priority now is to remove himself from the enemy’s line of sight and get to a safehouse.

He heads north. There’s a HYDRA hole-up not too far from the Potomac, and if he’s quick, he might be able to make it there before the enemy finds their way to it first.

Enemy…

It’s a word he can’t recall having used before. It feels foreign inside his head, and even as he thinks it, as he glances towards the sky in search of the helicopters, he’s not entirely sure who its meant to encompass.

Before, there’d always been words like target, mark, objective, mission… This word is… not part of the standard protocol. Something tells the Asset he should spend more time contemplating why that is, but there’s no time. Whoever the enemies are, they’re still out there.

The journey to the safehouse is slower than he would have liked. He winds through back alleys and abandoned subway stations. The streets are alive with police and the military, but they give him no other problem than being in his way. In fact, their presence is a welcome advantage as he reaches the safehouse, only to find that the place has been evacuated. There are signs of people having been there less than an hour ago, but whoever they’d been, they’d all fled the scene in haste; scared by the activity outside, no doubt. Everything but electronic devices had been abandoned, and the Asset has to admit a slight sense of relief when he finds that the safehouse is still fully stocked with everything he needs.

Stripping out of his wet leather gear takes some time due to his broken arm, but he manages. He uses the bathroom sink to wash the clotted blood out of his hair and check his scalp. The cut looks like it’s already begun to heal on its own, so he dismisses it as he leaves the bathroom to attend to his other injuries. It’s less efficient than normal, with only one working arm, so he leaves the smaller afflictions alone for now. Just like the head wound, they’ll heal faster on their own, and as long as he doesn’t bleed through his clothes, he’ll be fine.

As he goes back to the bathroom to wash off the newly stitched cuts, his gaze catches on the gleam of his left arm as it’s reflected in the bathroom mirror. It makes him pause, and as his eyes trail over the metal plating, a thought rises from within his mind.

What is he doing?

He should report back to his handlers and await either further orders, or extraction. It’s what he should have done the moment he crawled out of the Potomac. And yet he hasn’t.

_What is he doing?_

Even as he stands there, staring at his own reflection, he can feel the itch emerge beneath his skin; another voice from a place he doesn’t recognize, but seems to know all too well nonetheless. A voice that tells him to run. To run now, run fast, and never, ever stop.

It’s a voice that scares him. Because he knows that it speaks the truth.

Quickly, before he gets a chance to change his mind, the Asset goes into the bedroom closet in search of the tool box that’s supposed to be stashed inside it. It is not without satisfaction that he notes how every item is presented and arranged according to protocol.

He knows which tools to use. Basic maintenance is a skill that he’d been indoctrinated with for a very long time; a necessity when undertaking longer field missions. Removing the top plating of his arm is the hardest part since it’s made _not_ to come off, but once he’s in, he knows exactly what to look for.

The first tracker is small; barely bigger than a fingernail, and the Asset has to be careful not to accidentally let it touch the other circuits as he pulls it out. He doesn’t break it.

Breaking the transmitter would only alert his handlers that something is wrong. He’d rather have HYDRA _think_ they know where he is than _knowing_ they don’t. If they think he’s laying low in the safehouse, waiting for extraction until the dust has settled, it could give him a head start of anything between a week to a month, before they notice he’s missing. He’d contemplated keeping the trackers, to put them in a random cab later to throw HYDRA off, but that would also be outside of protocol. He doesn’t want to draw attention to himself by doing things he normally wouldn’t. Destroying trackers, or leaving the safehouse so soon after getting there would absolutely be out of the ordinary. Besides, even if he did destroy the trackers, HYDRA would still have registered data of his last location, so intact or not, they’d still be led to the safehouse.

So instead, he simply tosses it into the trash beneath the kitchen sink, and sits down at the kitchen table. The next tracker requires less finesse to remove, but it’s not nearly as pleasant.

It’s embedded in his upper thigh, and even though it’s sitting just beneath the skin, it’s been there long enough to have been encapsulated by scar tissue. Cutting into the leg to get it out hurts, but not as much as it hurts to cut it away from the muscle the scar tissue has been fused with.

When it’s over, the Asset is sweating, but his hands are steady as he stitches the incision closed, before getting up to toss the tracker into the trash to join the first.

Cleaning himself off, he switches his tactical gear for a civilian outfit from the selection available in the closet. The jeans fit, even though they’re a bit tight, and the dark hoodie he pulls over his head is both thick and warm. He grabs a jacket as well, mostly to have more pockets to store things in. It’s only April, so the weather’s bound to get warmer soon—not that he’s the kind who’s bothered by cold. Not anymore.  

He changes his heavy weapons for smaller, one-handed guns which are easier to conceal, and stocks up on ammunition. Shoving an extra clip into his back pocket, he also cleans out all the money he can find from the various stashes in the apartment, along with the field rations from the pantry, and puts it all in a backpack.

There are several fake IDs and passports that he could easily manipulate to suit him, but seeing as he doesn’t have any photos of himself, he simply bags them along with the money.

Lastly, he puts on a pair of brown leather gloves and takes one last look around the safehouse. Forsaking his tactical gear feels strange. Wrong. It leaves him with an uncomfortable sense of exposure; as if he’s naked, but he can’t allow himself to linger on that now. The voice in his head—that new, warmer voice—is slowly rising into a frantic babble to _get out, now,_ to _move._ As the Asset leaves the apartment, he has to force himself not to take the stairs two at a time on his way down.

It’s disturbing, this sudden urgency that’s taken hold of his nerves. He doesn’t like it. It serves its purpose, however, because it keeps him alert as he makes his way through the city. He avoids the subway; public transport might be monitored at this point, as well as traffic surveillance. Once again, he’s confined to back alleys, and his journey to Union Station takes far longer than what it should have.

There are no police or military present at the station when he arrives, but he suspects that’s only a matter of time. The news about the Triskelion falling is being blasted all over the news. It’s on every T.V. monitor, and people have seemingly stopped in their tracks to stare as one of the helicarriers crashes straight into the building, slicing it in half, wall to wall.

The Asset stops and does the same. He adopts a slack-jawed expression, and falls in with the choir of shocked gasps that rises from the crowd around him as the Helicarrier hits the ground in a blooming cloud of fire and smoke. He doesn’t stay there for more than a few minutes; just long enough not to stand out as he then moves on towards the ticket office.

He buys a one-way ticket to Baltimore. It’s the largest city in the immediate vicinity of D.C. He’d rather get out of Washington fast and then decide where to go than to get trapped on a longer route with possible pursuers.

The commuter trains depart every half hour, and the Asset is able to board the next train after a ten minute wait. As the station disappears in the distance behind him, he exhales slowly and presses his head against the backrest of his seat.

Relief. Another new sensation; one that he’s felt twice today already.

The voice in the back of his head has settled for now, something he decides must be a good thing. There’s still a stirring sense of panic in the pit of his stomach, albeit faint, and the Asset frowns as he glances down the aisle of the otherwise mostly empty carriage. There are three other passengers in it besides himself. A young girl with headphones who’s staring into her phone, and two businessmen having what the Asset determines is a phone conference of some sort.

None of them poses a threat.

He looks out the window at the suburban structures rushing by outside. His head is pounding, and he can feel the tired ache in his muscles as the strain of the day’s events starts to set in. He’s been awake for over 48 hours, not counting the fox’s sleep he’d gotten in the hours before the advancement on the Triskelion. It’s a trick he’d picked up a long time ago. If he pretended to be asleep, his handlers wouldn’t feel the need to use injections to put him under. The drugs always left him feeling sluggish, and this had been an important operation. He hadn’t wanted to take the risk.

In hindsight, he can’t recall why he’d been so eager to please in the first place.   

It doesn’t look like he’s being followed, but he’s not feeling safe enough to sleep yet. He spends the ride wide awake, and he’s grateful when the train rolls into Baltimore station a little over an hour later without incident. Being on the move fights the drowsiness more efficiently, and he intends to stay on the move for as long as he can.

There are three HYDRA safehouses in Baltimore. They’re used as waystations for the agents stationed in D.C., and the Asset makes a point of visiting each one. All of them have been cleared out in the same manner as the one in Washington. He stocks up on money and identification, figuring that the more of the latter he collects, the less chance the mysterious enemy will have of knowing exactly which ID he’ll be using later.

If they’re even looking for him.

He doesn’t stay in the city for long. Leaving the last safehouse, he spends an hour simply wandering the streets, looking over his shoulder to make sure he’s not being followed before heading back to the station. There, he spends another hour on the lookout before boarding a train to Philadelphia.

Once there, however, he is faced with a choice.

He can board another train and move on to Pittsburgh. It’s further inland, with more options on where to head from there. Or he could steal a car and drive there along Route 76, steal a new car, and then head southwest to… wherever. Both are logical decisions; tactical, calculated, safe.

It’s what they’d expect him to do.

Then, his gaze falls on the departure board, sticking on the name of the city at the top.

_New York._

It’s northeast of his current position. There are several transfers, and it’s less than a day’s journey from Washington D.C., which is considerably closer to the scene of attack than what he’d originally had in mind. He _is,_ however, in need of a place to stay, and New York _is_ less than three hours away. To rest and recover before deciding what to do next would also be a good tactical decision, and New York is a big city. He’d be able to hide in plain sight and blend in with the crowd more efficiently there than out on the road.

And no matter how reasonable all of those thoughts are, they fade into an irrelevant blur as his newfound voice immediately chimes in to urge him on once more. It tugs at his insides, telling him that yes, New York is where he’s supposed to go. New York is good. New York is _safe._

The Asset doesn't know what it means, or if there's any validity to the choices this added sense of intuition is trying to coerce him into making. All he knows is that so far there has been nothing to suggest that the voice is _wrong._

So to New York he goes.

 

/\/\/\

 

The news of the Triskelion battle had long since reached New York by the time he gets there, although it doesn't seem to have been received with the same sense of shock. People watch the photographs and videos on the T.V. screens at Penn Station in fascinated horror, but the emotional investment is not there. The lack of a police or military presence on the streets also bear witness to a subconscious detachment from the events that had taken place less than a few hours’ drive away.

The Asset doesn't mind, of course. The less commotion there is, the easier it’ll be for him to move around. There are at least four HYDRA dens in the city that he knows of, but even though one of them is close by, he has no intention of going there tonight. He has more than enough supplies to keep himself hidden away for months, as long as he uses his resources sparingly; to compromise his whereabouts for a few extra wads of cash would be foolish. Even if the safehouses are empty, they might be monitored by agents from the outside. Unlike Baltimore, where he could have disappeared in any given direction afterwards, New York is his last stop, and the Asset can't risk being tracked down now that he's injured, and at both a physical and mental disadvantage.

He's tired, and he needs to find a place to stay for the night—preferably indoors.

He discards the idea of sleeping in a homeless shelter. With the amount of guns and ammo he’s carrying, he’d get reported to the authorities in a heartbeat. It would be the exact opposite of keeping himself off the grid.

Instead, he heads south on foot. He wants to get out of Manhattan, away from the busy streets. There is no way for him to keep track of his surroundings with this many people around, but he doesn’t want to take a cab from directly outside of the station either. He waits until he’s at least five blocks away before he hails one. The driver is a talkative middle-aged man who immediately tries to rope the Asset into casual conversation. The Asset fakes a brief smile and explains in a choppy foreign accent that his English isn’t very good, and the man accepts the excuse with a polite nod of his head.

“You got an address?” he asks instead with a gesture to the road ahead.

The Asset doesn’t—not one that he can name exactly. And yet, he finds himself looking the man dead in the eye as he opens his mouth and says, “Brooklyn.”

He doesn’t know why. But going by the comfortable feeling that settles in his stomach as the cabbie pulls into traffic, the Asset suspects the new voice in his head has got something to do with it.

The change is evident now. The adrenaline from D.C. has long since settled, and yet he keeps experiencing these unusual emotional outbursts. They should scare him. They deviate from the norm, from the routines of his temperamental protocol, and that’s _not allowed._ If his handlers knew—

His train of thought staggers to a halt as a memory flashes past his inner eye; the image of a metal hand— _his_ hand—balled into a fist, and the dull, sensory crunch of bones against his knuckles as they connect with a HYDRA technician's face.

It’s a real memory, he has no doubt, but why had he done that?

Attacking a technician, a handler, or any HYDRA personnel is strictly forbidden and comes with severe punishment. Unless specified they are to be treated as his superiors at all times, and for him to turn on one of them like that should be unthinkable. Unacceptable.

So how come he remembers it feeling so good?

And why does it feel like he’d done it more than once?

He turns his gaze to his lap with a tight clench of his jaw, because the second the thought passes through his mind he realizes that it’s because he _has._ Whatever this voice, intuition, _presence_ in the back of his mind is, or however it came to be, it’s clear that it possesses knowledge that the Asset does not. It remembers mannerisms that he’s never given a single thought to. _Feels_ in ways he never has. And yet every thought and emotion he experiences feels natural and familiar, like the very skin on his body. It’s visceral, and the Asset doubts that such insubordination, even internalized, would have been something his handlers would have been willing to allow…

They take the route across the Brooklyn Bridge, and once they’re over, the cabbie asks him for an address again. The Asset gives him one north of Prospect Park. It would be suspicious for a tourist to venture further south, away from the attractions, especially at this hour.

He pays his fare and tells the driver goodbye in the same broken English as before, and then heads out to find a place to spend the night. There aren’t many motels in this area, but there are a few hotels to choose from. The Asset ignores the expensive ones, focusing on the ones offering cheap lodgings at the expense of scenery and interior design. He rejects the first three he comes across until he happens on one he deems suitable. No balconies, safety bars on the windows, and with a few rooms situated in the rear, facing a massive brick wall, efficiently preventing anyone from seeing inside.

The man behind the front desk is young, most likely a student working late shifts for extra income. He looks up from his phone as the Asset walks through the door, and the Asset notes the shift in his posture as the man lets his propped-up feet drop.

“A room,” the Asset says before the young man can ask. “For one. One night.”

The man blinks in surprise at his short tone, but then quickly goes to punch the request into the computer.

“Any rooms in the back?” the Asset asks. “One that faces the wall?”

“Sure do,” the man replies “But are you sure you want one of those? I’ve got other rooms with a better view if you’d like?”

“No,” the Asset replies flatly, and the man shrugs as he continues to type.

“Name?” he asks.

“Benjamin Jacobs,” the Asset lies, and the man nods, still typing.

“ID?”

Fuck.

The Asset pauses, and makes a closer assessment of the man in front of him. Definitely a college student, dressed in a brand-name shirt—although washed out and well worn. Cheap aftershave, and a glance over the counter reveals a smart phone with a cracked screen.

“Ah,” the Asset says, making a strategic decision. “I’ve lost my wallet.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t check you in without an ID,” the student says. The Asset puts his elbow on the counter, leaning in slightly.

“I know,” he says, “But you see, all my cards were in that wallet. However, I _can_ pay you cash.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bundle of rumpled bills – purposely making the sum a considerable amount higher than the room can possibly cost. He looks the man in the eye. “Are you _sure_ ID’s necessary?”

“I—”

“I have no doubts there’s some way for you to make it work,” the Asset interrupts. He glances at the money, before meeting the man’s eye again. “If you really want to.”  

The guy looks hesitant, but the Asset doesn’t budge. He knows that he’s won when the man’s gaze momentarily flickers to the side right before he nods and grabs the money out of the Asset’s hand. He doesn’t count it, and the Asset doesn’t point it out.

He watches the man punch the last of the information into the computer, and then turn around and grab a key from the wall behind him.

“Here you go,” he says as he turns to face the Asset again. “Third floor, second door on the left. Just stay out of trouble, or it’s my head.”

The Asset simply nods and takes the key out of his hand without a word.

 

/\/\/\

 

The room is small, but it’s clean and quiet. There’s a double bed inside, a small T.V. atop a set of drawers, as well as a table and chair near the window. After closing the curtains, he turns off the lights, rests his backpack by his feet, and settles in.

He sleeps sitting up, facing the door with his back to a corner and a loaded gun in his metal hand. His sleep isn’t deep. His broken arm hurts, and the few hours of rest he manages to get aren’t restful by any stretch of the imagination. As the sun begins to rise, the Asset decides that this newfound presence in his head definitely has more disconcerting side effects than just emotions.

He leaves the hotel early.

The street outside is already getting busy, and the Asset effortlessly joins the flow of people as he begins his reconnaissance mission. He needs information in order to figure out what his next move should be, and he starts by picking up and reading every newspaper he can get his hands on. Yesterday’s events are all over the place now that the press has had time to print the story. After a quick stop at a local Internet café and a few well-directed web searches later, the Asset has no problem putting the pieces together to find out what exactly had happened.

The cause of HYDRA’s failure had been external interference. The SHIELD response team known as the Avengers had intercepted the Project Insight Helicarriers before they could  fire on their targets, and somehow commandeered them to fire on each other. Sacrificing the Helicarriers rather than have them fall into the hands of HYDRA, the Avengers had efficiently prevented Project Insight from being carried out.

The videos showing the third Helicarrier crashing into the Triskelion look close to surreal as the Asset studies them, and yet he had been there less than twenty-four hours ago. He had stood on the top floor of that building, pointing a gun at the red-haired woman from the Avengers who had infiltrated the World Security Council meeting. A fraction of a second had been the only warning, when the woman’s eyes had suddenly widened, and then the very framework of the building had begun to collapse around them.

The Asset had seen a glass shard the size of his arm run Alexander Pierce through from across the room when the windows shattered. The woman had dodged the glass splinters by throwing herself to the floor, then the ceiling had collapsed. A steel beam had come crashing down from above a split second after, and the Asset had received a hard blow to the head as it had landed on top of him.

The blow had been powerful enough to knock him out, just for a few seconds. That’s most likely where the cut on his scalp had originated, but the Asset knows without having to touch it that there’s nothing left of it now. Not even a scar.

He wonders, briefly, if that blow to the head had been what had caused this _other side_ of him to emerge so suddenly. All the subconscious little thoughts he’s been having, which are undoubtedly his, but don’t feel like anything he’s used to thinking. The emotions he’s not familiar with having. It could be; the human brain is a complex thing. He should know…

He remembers coming to after the blow in what had to have been just a few seconds later, and he had quickly realized that the wing of the Helicarrier had still been slicing its way through the floors below them. He’d gotten up, and he had run. Sprinting, dodging falling slabs of concrete, and sliding through the openings of collapsed walls, he had somehow made it to the other end of the floor in one piece. The Helicarrier had just finished its journey through the storeys below, and the Asset had not even stopped to do the math before he had jumped through the already-shattered window, aiming for the moving vehicle below.

He had made the jump, rolled to his feet, and started running once again. Then, an explosion, a sharp pain in his right arm, and next thing he knew, he had hit the water.

Leaning back in his seat, the Asset looks at the computer screen as he runs the gloved tips of his metal fingers along the sling holding up his broken arm. He can see it in the video snippet, how debris from the Triskelion had fallen into the rotor of the engine only seconds after what must have been his leap from the building, causing it to explode. Some of it must have hit him in the blast, and the Asset supposes he should feel lucky he’d walked away with only a single broken bone rather than a six-foot rotor blade through his gut.

Reading through the forums it becomes apparent that SHIELD is under a lot of pressure from the government to explain how an organization such as HYDRA could have infiltrated them on such a grand scale. Several articles reveal how the red-headed woman the Asset had fought had released classified information about both HYDRA and SHIELD. She’d done so in order to flush the remaining HYDRA operatives out of hiding after the incident. The Asset supposes she’s the one he should be thanking for all the safehouses around D.C. being abandoned in such a hurry.

He also finds that he’s genuinely pleased to read that she had made it out of the Triskelion in time, thanks to her fellow Avenger in the flying armor. She had been a worthy opponent.

And thanks to her, the information on HYDRA is now all over the Internet. Not in the open, not for the public eye, but very much there for the people who know what to look for. The Winter Soldier is mentioned by several unofficial sources; the deep web whispering about this now-confirmed assassin who’s allegedly on the run in Washington. The Asset approves of that. As long as people thinks he’s there, they won’t come looking for him here in New York.

There’s nothing about him in the news though. Whether that means that the government is looking for him and doesn’t want him to know about it, or whether they’re just too busy to bother with him for now, he doesn’t know.

His files are found easily enough—mostly because there's not much to find. He skims through them with the sole purpose of confirming that they're authentic, nothing more. But even the few sections that manage to catch his attention long enough to read them properly are more than sufficient to make him feel physically sick.

It’s not _all_ there. Most of the information is gleaned from whatever haphazard scribbles HYDRA had been able to collect and decipher from Zola’s handwritten notes. However, there are other documents that provide him with more definite data. Military registration forms from the U.S Army; information on who he used to be before he became the man HYDRA had eventually molded him into. He learns that HYDRA had originally taken him prisoner during World War II, and in the scattered fragments that make up his medical file, he’s able to read about the drugs they’ve pumped into his system ever since. And about the memory wipe procedures…

He tenses up, muscles spasming as photos of the chair flash by on the screen in front of him. He doesn’t remember exactly what the experiences in the chair had felt like. Those memories had never remained. But he remembers the dread. The plastic taste of the mouth-guard in his mouth. That sickening lurch in the pit of his stomach as the fastenings had closed around his wrists, and the halo had been lowered to crown his head. The smell of scorched flesh that had always lingered in his nostrils afterwards. He recalls the soreness of his throat with vivid clarity, and the piercing pain that had drowned out everything when they had forced him to move, much too soon.  

And yet, the chair had just been a procedure, not a punishment. Punishments had been worse.  

He can’t stomach reading more about the procedure itself; not now, not here. However, as bad as the fleeting reminders of the chair are for him, they’re nothing compared to the jolt that goes through him as he reads the name that’s been written at the very top of the oldest report.

His name.

The capital letters scream up at him from the page; coarse and unrefined, splattered black ink by the spindle-like arms of the typewriter that had been used to put them there.  

Barnes, they read. James Buchanan Barnes.

_Bucky._

The name slots into his head like a piece of a puzzle, and he knows, _knows_ with every fibre of his being that it _is_ his name. His _real_ name.

“Bucky…” he whispers to himself. Quiet, like a secret. He tastes the shape of it against the inside of his mouth repeatedly, but no matter how many time he lets it roll over his tongue, the sound of it doesn’t become any more familiar.

An old black and white photo had been attached to the page with a paperclip before it had been scanned. Military uniform, neat haircut, clean-shaven face, bright, clear eyes… It’s the photo of a man who looks about as far away from a merciless killer as one can get.

It sparks no recognition within him. Instead, he experiences something he can only describe as sorrow. Sorrow, for this poor man, whoever he had been, and what he had been forced to endure. The pain he must have suffered.

Reading further, another mystery is revealed.

James Buchanan Barnes, born in 1917, on the 10th of March. New York City.

 _New York is good. New York is_ safe.

New York is _home,_ is what the voice had been trying to tell him, the voice which the Asset is now convinced belongs to Barnes. Or what’s left of him. However, as the word ‘home’ doesn’t hold any significant meaning for the Asset other than a location where one is most likely to find the target of a mission, the message had not come through correctly.

He’s not surprised to also discover that Barnes had not only been born in New York, but had also grown up right here in Brooklyn. Suddenly, the Asset’s decision about coming to New York doesn’t appear as tactical as he had thought. For a moment, he wonders if perhaps he’s made a mistake, but then realizes it might have been the exact opposite; the enemy is looking for the Winter Soldier, not Barnes. And given the contrast between the two, following the advice of the latter might actually increase the Asset’s chances of remaining hidden.

All things considered, it’s the best plan he has at the moment.

He pays the fee to print the reports using the café’s printer, then shoves the papers into his backpack the moment they’re done. Before he leaves, he also makes sure to wipe the search history of the computer he had used. _Properly._

After that, he heads straight to the Brooklyn Public Library. He needs more information on _exactly_ the kind of drugs HYDRA had used to keep him under control for all those years, and he doesn’t have much time. He’s been without his shots and IVs for over forty-eight hours already, and he only has a few more days, maybe a week at most, before the first of the withdrawal symptoms will begin to show.

He needs to find out what to expect, provided he can’t find any replacement drugs to at least stall the process. If he goes into shock, he won’t be able to defend himself, broken arm or no. He knows that the serum mentioned in the report might be able to help with the repercussions of withdrawal, but he can’t stake his chances on that one possibility. Not now.

He conducts his research quickly, efficiently. He keeps his head down, his eyes open, his senses sharp. He stays for as long as he can afford without drawing attention to himself. Even though he is able to gather a lot of information, it’s still not as specific as he would have liked.

As he goes to look for another place to spend the night, he tries to construct a strategy. He has managed to discern most of the medical information in his charts, focusing his efforts on the drugs used most frequently, and with the highest doses. Not surprisingly the majority of the drugs listed had been primarily applied to treat the physical shock of being pulled out of cryo sleep. Amphetamines were used to keep fatigue at bay, mostly high-doses of adrenaline and caffeine, all of which he should be able to supplement, should he need to. It’s just a matter of knowing where to look. However, going through his notes there were unfortunately… _other_ substances being used that worry him.

HYDRA has always dealt in experimental medicine, and the concoctions they had injected him with, especially during the early stages of his captivity, had been unknown, unlabelled chemical substances, mixed with heavy-duty industrial formularies. Even in Zola’s notes they remained untitled, which causes a significant problem.

The Asset suspects that even if he were able to identify these drugs, it’s unlikely there’d be enough back-alleys or street-corners in the U.S. where he’d be able to procure them.

A voice in the back of his head—not Barnes, but an sterner, colder voice—tells him that he’s being foolish. That he should go back, because his chances of making it out here on his own are very slim. He’s a killer; more machine than man, and he’s been locked away from the world for too long. He’ll be caught, somehow, by someone, it’s just a matter of time. If he went back—

No. The Asset grits his teeth as he ducks his head. No, he won’t go back. Not ever again.

 _I’d die first_ , Barnes chips in, with the same fervor.

 _It’s your choice_ , the colder voice replies with what feels like a shrug.

“Yes,” the Asset hisses under his breath. _It’s my_ choice _._

The two personas inside his head fall silent as he rounds another street corner. He knows the identity of both now. The new voice and the old. Barnes and the Soldier. Two people living inside his head who are both him, yet nothing like him at all.

Pulling his baseball cap further down over his face, the Asset starts scanning the block ahead for motel signs. He needs to find a more permanent place to stay, and fast. With the way things are looking up, he’ll do best to prepare for the worst.

 

 

 


	2. 2

****The Asset spends the following week moving around a lot. Most nights he stays at hotels and motels used primarily by tourists. Other nights he ventures further into the slum areas to rent a room at some second-rate hostel. The ones where he can’t hustle his way past the ID checks, he spends out on the streets. He always pays cash wherever he goes, and he never stays for longer than one night at a time. He switches aliases with every move, and he makes sure never to use any of the identities taken from the HYDRA safehouses, saving those for emergencies in favor of pulling names straight out of the phone book instead.

The hours of his days are spent exclusively on making sure he’s not followed, re-reading the scarce information in his file, and researching the substances listed there.

He’s been feeling them already; the withdrawal symptoms. They’ve been sneaking up on him ever since his escape from D.C. Starting with headaches, and then building up to nausea, and a sense of fatigue that makes standing up a chore all on its own… It’s just a matter of time before they kick in for real, be it hours or days away, there’s no way for him to tell exactly.

Time is running out, and the Asset knows that he needs to come up with a strategy to deal with the impending situation, and fast.

At first he had contemplated tracking down local drug dealers to find what he might need. According to the math, he should be able to get his hands on enough of the more common recreational drugs to keep himself lucid throughout the rehab process. However, by doing so he’d create a contradiction for himself by filling up on drugs he’s trying to get rid of. Drugs he doesn’t want anymore. He doesn’t want _anything_ to do with _any_ of the stuff mentioned in that file, and therefore it is with firm resolve he decides the drug dealers are a no-go. He’s not putting any of that shit in his body ever again—even if the refusal ends up killing him.

Barnes is of the same opinion. Although, he does appear to have _one_ exception.

Coffee.

According to reports, the Asset’s dosage of caffeine after cryo sleep had been anything ranging between 800 to 1000 mg, all in one shot. That had then been followed up by additional injections whenever his handlers had deemed it necessary; sometimes going all the way up to 1800 mg on the first day out of the ice. Reading up on the topic, he finds that if he wants to match this dosage, he’ll need something between two to ten full cups every day. For starters. Taking into consideration that just 400 mg of caffeine is considered to be harmful for the human body in the long term, however, the Asset’s not quite sure how to feel about continuing that habit.

There are alternatives, of course. Pills and caffeinated drinks. Energy drinks appear to be especially popular, but the more he reads about those, the less impressed he is. Artificial sweeteners, chemicals, food coloration… As far as the topic of supplements goes, energy drinks do indeed seem to fall under the least efficient, as well as least healthy category. Something all three of them agree on, which is a first.

The Soldier doesn’t like Barnes. He considers him a liability, something that dulls their senses and slows them down. Barnes’ opinion of the Soldier is about as heartfelt, thinking of him as cold, unsympathetic, and mechanical. The conflict they cause inside his head makes the Asset feel torn in more ways than one, and when he finally finds something they’re not fighting over, he’s not about to turn it down.

So coffee it is.

He gets his first cup from Starbucks. Apart from being a widespread chain with shops on nearly every street corner, they’re also one of the chains with the highest caffeine count in their drinks.

The moment the Asset steps through the door of the shop, the scent hits him like a physical punch to the gut. He _knows_ that smell. Given, not that _exact_ one, but the dark, roasted aroma that wafts through the air is unmistakably familiar all the same.  

It’s a scent that relaxes him, and from the back of his mind, he feels Barnes’ presence perk up in excitement.

Thanks to the Internet, he already knows which one to order, but as the barista hands over his Venti of True North Blend, Blonde Roast of 475 mg caffeine, he can’t help but wonder why they hadn’t simply handed him the entire pot. The cup is enormous, and he sits down at an empty table at the back of the shop before he peels the lid off to look down at its contents.

The brew is a dark caramel color. Even though the smell is sweeter than the one hovering around the barista machines, it doesn’t smell strange, or wrong. Barnes deems it safe, and the Soldier concurs with his assessment. So the Asset drinks.  

 

 

The warmth of the beverage fills his mouth, and as he swallows, it spreads comforting heat through his body. The taste conjures up images of smiling faces, warm sunshine on wooden floors… White curtains with daisies embroidered along the lace trim, rustling in the breeze from an open window. Of snow, and clouds of breath mingling with snowflakes falling from the sky. Of chilled fingers cupping porcelain, and the raw, stinging sensation of burns on his tongue.

Safe memories. Fond memories.

They only last for a moment, but they’re enough. He drinks the entire cup in less than fifteen minutes, and he knows even as he gets up from his seat that it won’t be his last. However, it doesn’t eliminate his worries. According to his files, he hasn’t gone completely without artificial stimuli for decades. Even if the coffee _does_ help, he still has no idea what going without the rest of the drugs will do to his body, or his mind.

There are medications that could help him, but seeing as he still has no accurate knowledge on the substances already introduced in his system, adding even more isn’t a very good idea. And then there’s the serum, of course.

On every documented instance, the serum has advanced his healing process, but whether or not the additional use of drugs had aided the acceleration, the Asset cannot tell. There’s also the risk that rather than assisting the detox, the serum will end up increasing the symptoms of his withdrawal. No matter the information he’s managed to gather so far, it is impossible to know for sure.

As he exits the coffee shop, the Asset squints at the clouded sky above, knowing fully well that he shouldn’t feel a need to do so.

Light sensitivity.

Another symptom.

 

/\/\/\

 

He doesn’t have to wait long. Waking up the morning after, he’s greeted by a skull-splitting headache. The nausea follows within just a few hours, accompanied by a shortness of breath as physical exhaustion sets in. It won’t be long before the more severe symptoms make themselves known, but it’s not as if the Asset hasn’t already foreseen this.

His current motel of residence is a mediocre establishment, but it’s in a good location, with locks on both windows and doors that actually _work._ It’s a big step up from the last place he had stayed at, and he won’t have time to find a better place. So he deems it better to stay put where he is. However, there are some things he needs to stock up on first.

In spite of the migraine that’s already threatening to make his head explode, he forces himself out of the motel to run a few final errands. He starts by stocking up on food from the local mini mart—the kind that doesn’t have to be refrigerated, and can be eaten without having to be cooked first. Once that’s done, he grabs a cab to the nearest Target and picks up a $16, 12-cup coffee brewer before heading back to the motel. Then he hangs the do-not-disturb sign on his door, and locks himself in his room.

Just in time, too.

Migraine aside, he manages to get the coffee machine set up with no problem at all, but by the time the first pot has finished brewing, things have already gotten worse. His muscles are aching, which is a sensation he can’t recall having felt in a very, very long time, if ever. Due to the serum, the Asset doesn’t normally experience muscle soreness, so as far as he can remember this is something entirely new. He’s not in pain, not yet, but since he is evidently capable of aching, he can’t help but feel a slight trepidation about what he can expect in the upcoming days.

As night falls, the change of his mental state has become evident. He’s irritable, on edge. Every sound outside his door has him tensing up and reaching for his gun, to the point where it’s easier for him to simply keep it in his hand at all times. Which in turn annoys him, because he _shouldn’t have to_. The Asset should be fully capable of determining whether or not the footsteps in the hallway are coming from passing patrons or approaching enemies. To sit in here, clutching his firearm like an amateur, is beneath him in every way imaginable.

So he forces himself to put the gun back on the bedside table where it belongs, even though it gives him no comfort to do so.

Just like that, the walls around him appear paper-thin. He hears _everything_. From the two people having enthusiastic, vocal sex in the room above him, to the pops and bangs of the heaters in the corridor outside, and his brain appears dead set on registering every last sound as a threat.

He turns on the dingy old T.V. to drown out the noises. The constant static of the audiotrack does nothing to soothe the pounding of his head, even though it’s better than the cacophonic version of silence this motel has to offer as an alternative.

Television is a peculiar thing. The Asset can’t really put his finger on it, but people appear determined to create conflict and argument where none is needed: whether it’s fictional scenarios or otherwise. It’s annoying, really, how fond the human nature appears to be of discord. And yelling. _So much yelling._

Both Barnes and the Soldier appear confused by the phenomenon as well, and they all appreciate that the selection of channels at least gives them an opportunity to pick _which_ sort of confusion they get to entertain themselves with. Cooking shows are actually quite calming. There are rules, measurements, time frames, goals. The Asset just wishes the people who host them would stop _smiling_ so much; it's disconcerting.

His strategy works well enough for the first two days, but as the effects of the withdrawal really kick in, the Asset realizes that T.V. can only do so much.

He turns to his files in order to pass the time in a more efficient manner, moving past HYDRA’s records of his medical evaluations and onto the threadbare mission reports attached to them. However, what he unearths does nothing to help his mood.

It had never been kept from him that he’d been good at his job. In fact, his handlers had told him so on several occasions. The Asset was fast, strong, accurate, precise… So many missions, and not a single deficiency. All those lives permanently terminated, because the Asset was _good_ at what he did.

The satisfaction he feels coming off the Soldier as it mixes with Barnes’ disgusted reaction makes for a very confusing emotional response.     

He ends up staring himself blind on those reports while the memories flash through his mind, one by one in sporadic shifts and patterns. Faces, names, places, all of them followed by equally confusing series of emotions. Seeing as he’d turned to the reports to help keep himself calm, he can’t deny doing so has turned out to be a grave miscalculation on his part.

Even after he stops reading, the memories linger in the back of his head. He tries to sleep them off, but it doesn’t help. Vivid nightmares haunt him even as he dozes, and when he actually manages to fall into a proper sleep, they’re even worse. He dreams of people he knows used to be close to him—and how he slaughters every last one of them without hesitation. When he wakes up, sweating and gasping, he’s not sure whether that particular dream had been only that, or an actual memory.

The coffee machine turns out to be his salvation. He drinks to stay awake, brews the blend as dark as he can without rendering it undrinkable. Barnes has _opinions_ whenever he compromises the taste for efficiency, and the Asset doesn’t have the energy to deal with his discontent right now. It turns out not to matter, because the nightmares follow him anyway.

On day four of his detox process, he starts hallucinating.

He knows that’s what they are, but that doesn’t stop them from catching him off guard whenever they appear. He sees them from the corner of his eye: dark shapes moving around the room, but much like the memories in his head they’re never clear, or solid. He catches glimpses of flashing lights in his peripheral vision, and even though one part of his brain tells him they’re not really there, another part insists that they’re the gleam of gun barrels pointing his way.  

The Soldier is there too. The first time the Asset spots him, the sight is vivid enough for him to physically pull his gun on him. But the Soldier doesn’t do anything. He stands by the windows, mostly. Looking out, keeping watch. Sitting in chairs with his arms crossed, eyes sharp, watching _him._ He’s wearing the same tac gear that the Asset had left behind in D.C.. Seeing it again is somehow even more haunting than any mysterious apparition from his past.

On day four, Barnes joins them. He’s more irritable than the Soldier, more frustrated. He’s dressed in the same military uniform the Asset had seen him wear in the photos from his file. And he talks a lot. Pacing back and forth, he talks about locations, people, and events the Asset knows he should recognize, but doesn’t. Although, a few names in particular do spark an entirely new series of emotions inside of him. At some point, the Asset must’ve forgotten how to feel them, because it takes him long enough to recognize them for what they are.

Grief.

Loss.

Regret.

The Soldier watches Barnes pace, but he rarely speaks. However, whenever Barnes happens to mention a place called _Kreischberg_ , the Soldier throws calculated looks at the Asset in a way that sends chills down the Asset’s spine.

He tries to distract himself with the T.V. again, but it doesn’t work. He doesn’t enjoy it; can’t bring himself to see the point. Not even the detailed visuals of how to create the perfect Beef Wellington are enough to soothe the agitation he’s currently feeling.

Things get worse after that. His sleeping pattern over the following days becomes erratic—when it exists at all—and he finds himself spending more time simply sitting or lying down, staring into nothing while the thoughts take increasingly darker turns inside his head. He knows that the depression is consequential due to the drugs leaving his system, but knowledge alone doesn’t change the situation.

Maybe he should have tried to lessen the effects of the withdrawal by weaning himself off the drugs first? Perhaps, if he had kept using the amphetamines while flushing out the heavy-duty drugs, things would have been easier?

Several times, he’s tempted to leave the motel and track down a dealer. Or anyone who’d be able to get him the drugs needed to start over. A single injection, just enough to take the edge off.

The Soldier always becomes more attentive whenever he starts thinking like that. No longer passive, he leans forward in his chair, or turns away from the window to look at him, gaze sharp. That’s how the Asset knows he’s allowed his head to stray too far from what’s considered safe. All it takes to fix it, however, is one look inside his file, and the ominous photograph of the chair there, and any thought of taking drugs are efficiently stripped from existence.

Staring at the steel restraints, he can feel the phantom grasp of them clicking shut around his wrists, and he immediately feels like he’s going to throw up. The photograph flutters to the floor as he clenches his fists, and he grits his teeth as he curls in on himself on the bed with a shuddering breath. He’s not going back. He’s not going back. He’s not ever, _ever_ going back…!

By the time he forces himself out of bed, he can’t tell if he’s been there for an hour, or an entire day. At this point, time in the form of hours and minutes have been traded in for the quiet drip of the coffee brewer and the periodic growls of his stomach.

He makes a final attempt to occupy his thoughts with cleaning his weapons. It’s a routine, a specific set of actions he can focus on, but that too turns out to be a challenge.

With his arm still in a sling, disassembling the guns is harder than normal, and the momentum needed to slide the rack far enough to disconnect it from the stock actually hurts. It’s stupid to force it, but the Asset doesn’t care. He doesn’t get further than his Sig Sauer and halfway through the Glock before his hands begin to shake, his fingers going numb.

He drinks more coffee in an attempt to even the trembles out, but it doesn’t help. He just barely manages to put the Glock back together before his vision goes blurry, and as he goes to put the guns away, he’s literally sweating through his clothes. His fingers feel dead with cold, and he trembles, freezing despite the sheen of sweat covering his skin. He’s clearly got a fever—whatever meaning the word ‘fever’ holds for him.

It doesn’t let up, either. As a result, the Asset spends what he later counts to be thirty-six hours in a caffeinated, shivering haze, with sweat soaked sheets clinging to his skin as he wraps the beddings around himself in an attempt to keep the cold at bay.

Barnes hovers over him, whispering for him to fight, that it’ll be worth it, while the Soldier watches them from across the room in silence. His stare is cold, emotionally void, free of compassion and sentimental disposition. The Asset finds himself tempted by it. The idea of feeling nothing. To just end it all and be done.

He begins to spend his nights taking the top bullet out of the clip to his Sig Sauer, just to look at it. Just that .40 millimeter hollow point round, brass casing reflected in the silver cradle of his palm. He stares at the shallow star shape that’s been carved into the jacketed tip for hours, thinking about how easy it would be. How quick.  

A hollow point won’t go through the wall, which will render collateral damage insubstantial. The bullet point would flare into a mushroom shape on impact, tearing the tissue and slicing it apart. And if the shattered jacket fragments won’t kill him, the shockwave from the impact will be more than enough to turn his brain into mush. Even if the round doesn’t tumble inside his skull, it’ll still make sure he dies, nice and clean—guaranteeing no one will be able to bring him back from the dead ever again.

One night he puts the clip back into the gun and cocks it to put a bullet in the chamber. He turns the gun over in his hand to peer down the barrel, gazing into the darkness of the muzzle while both the Soldier and Barnes look on, one passive, one anxious.

He doesn’t pull the trigger. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to.

The food he’d bought is of the same variety as he’s used to from his missions: protein bars, canned soups, dried fruit and meats, nuts… He still has a few of the military rations as well, and boiling water in the coffee maker is child’s play, yet he doesn't feel compelled to eat. It’s all tasteless. Dry and ashy.

The nausea is also getting worse, and he’s developed stomach pains, but he can tell they’re not due to the withdrawal alone. It goes deeper than that; a hurt that’s just as real as the ache in his bones. He feels sick to his stomach as the food grows in his mouth with every turn of his jaw, and even though he manages to swallow it down, he doesn’t get to keep it for long. However, the Soldier informs him that he needs the nutrition to survive, and Barnes concurrs, albeit in a slightly more encouraging tone. So the Asset tries, over and over. And every time he ends up in the bathroom, clutching the seat of the toilet with tears and snot dripping from his the tip of his nose as he hurls the meager contents of his stomach into the bowl beneath.

As he rises from his knees for the fifth time in less than thirty minutes, his legs are trembling to the point where he has to grab around the sink to keep himself from falling over. His body has grown weak due to lack of sustenance. The strain that moving around puts on his nervous system is audible from the whirr that rises from his metal arm as he lifts it to wipe across his mouth with the back of his hand.

He turns on the tap to splash water on his face. The cool feels good, provoking shivers as it trickles down his neck and clavicle while he leans his head against the mirrored cabinet above. He still has a fever, and his head is pounding along with the rapid beats of his pulse. The room around him is swimming as he forces his eyes open, but by the time he finally manages to focus his gaze, all he finds is the Soldier’s dark eyes staring back at him from the mirror.

_Look at you._

The Asset squeezes his eyes back shut, but it doesn’t help. The Soldier’s voice slithers into his mind all the same, already originating from the inside rather than the outside.

_You should be ashamed of yourself. Really, is this who you are now? Sniveling and curling up on the floor like some dog? In this state you wouldn’t even be capable enough to dispose of a child._

The Asset physically flinches. “Don’t say that,” he grates.

 _Say what? That you’re weak? Or that putting a bullet through a child’s head is something you_ should _be capable of doing?_

“No,” the Asset argues as the statement sends his stomach twisting in on itself. “Not children, I never—”

 _And how the hell would you know?_ the Soldier counters flatly. _Because it’s not in the reports? Newsflash, idiot, they don’t put everything in the reports. Collateral damage least of all._

“No,” the Asset repeats through gritted teeth. “You’re lying.”

_Lying would be a waste of time. And you’re not worth the effort it would take._

_Don’t listen to him,_ Barnes cuts in sternly. _He’s just pissed off because he’s not the one calling the shots around here anymore._

 _It doesn’t matter who’s in control,_ the Soldier hisses. _HYDRA will punish us anyway. They will find you and take us back. And when they put us in the chair this time, you’ll know that you_ deserve _it._

 _We didn’t do anything,_ Barnes snarls as he turns his attention on the Soldier. You _did. You did_ all _of this._

He _broke,_ the Soldier counters frigidly. _He had the choice to die, or surrender, and he surrendered. He_ chose _this._

“Shut up,” the Asset breathes. His metal grip around the sink tightens, and his head feels like it’s going to split wide open.

 _Don’t you dare say we had a choice,_ Barnes growls. _They stole that from us the moment they took our name away._

 _Funny how you keep saying ‘we’ like the two of you are still the same person,_ the Soldier says with a lowering snort. _Look at him. You really think you look the same?_

 _Oh, so just because he doesn’t_ resemble _me anymore, that automatically means he’s more like_ you? Barnes retorts. _Don’t you get it? He’s_ done _with you!_

 _He’ll never be done with me,_ the Soldier says slowly. _I am a part of him now as much as you._

“Shut up…” The Asset curls his fingers against the porcelain, gritting his teeth as he feels the wet burn welling up beneath his eyelids. He tries to shut the voices out of his head, but it’s useless. His stomach turns as the two begin to argue even louder, and even though the groan that claws its way up his throat is surely loud enough to be heard in the next room, it doesn’t manage to drown out the noise.

 _They will never get to us again,_ Barnes declares sternly. _We’re out, and we’re going to stay out!_

 _Putting a bullet through his head would be a greater mercy than whatever freedom there is for him now,_ the Soldier counters. _There’s no place for us out here and he knows it. He’ll be running from the past for the rest of his life._

_He’s innocent._

_He’s a_ killer!

“Shut the _fuck up!_ ”

The smash of glass, the chink of shards hitting the floor, and a searing pain that travels up his right shoulder. And then nothing.

The voices go silent. The Asset opens his eyes to look, and he’s alone.   

There’s a shard from the bathroom mirror lodged between his knuckles from where he had driven his fist through the cabinet. It stands upright, at least two inches long, and with one of those inches firmly embedded in his trembling hand.

He stares at it. Then, slowly, he lifts his arm and pulls the shard from his flesh with a swift yank of metal fingers. The blood that immediately begins flowing out of the wound trickles down the line of his wrist and forearm to drip onto the sink below, painting white in crimson splatters.

Half of the mirrored glass is stained in streaks of blood, and as the Asset lifts it higher, it tints the reflected image of his face red. However, he’s relieved to find that when he meets the eyes on the other side this time, they’re solely his own.

_Bucky._

The name comes to him without effort, and as he repeats it, he can feel the tremors in his limbs subside, even if just slightly. He lets the shard drop to the floor with a faint jangle as he looks to the remains of the mirror still hanging in the shattered frame. He takes in the hollows of his eyes, the strain in his jaw, the sheen of sweat on his brow, and makes a decision.

Bucky.

His name…is Bucky.

 

/\/\/\

 

In the end, he stays inside his motel room for nearly a whole month, riding the storm out as best he can.

The brunt of the withdrawal had worn off after the first ten days – most likely with help from the serum – but other symptoms take longer to get rid off. The headaches refuse to leave him alone, and his stomach is still in an uproar. Eating is difficult, which doesn’t help with the headaches one bit. His body is sore, his muscles ache, but that too is a fading discomfort.

His arm had healed by the end of his second week, much according to calculations. Getting rid of the sling had been his first proper step towards pulling himself back together. The blow to the bathroom mirror hadn’t caused any additional damage to the fracture, thankfully, although… it had changed something. The Soldier and Barnes have both been silent since the incident, even though Bucky can still feel them lurking in the back of his mind. Idle, but present.

The process has not gone unnoticed on the outside either. The lack of food, along with the fever and vomiting has caused him to lose a lot of his former body mass. Even though he’s on the mend, his physical strength is still only a fraction of what it once was.

That’s the biggest reason why he stays at the motel for as long as he does. By going outside, he’d always be at risk of outing his whereabouts, and he wouldn’t be strong enough to fight off eventual pursuers should things get physical.   

However, as his body recovers, so does its need for food. _Real_ food. If he ever hopes to make any _actual_ physical progress, he’ll need to make a supply run. He has a calorie intake to regain, after all, and he can’t do that on a diet of granola bars and almonds.

He doesn’t go far, just down the street to the local corner store. The daylight hurts his eyes—another side effect of his recent ordeal—and so he waits until dark before heading out. There aren’t that many people on the streets, and even though he doesn’t spot anything suspicious, he still keeps a watchful eye on his surroundings, just to be safe.

He gathers what he needs, quickly and efficiently, and heads to the register as soon as he’s found what he’s looking for. His choices aren’t perfect, but they’re good enough for a start. The cashier gives him a funny look as he approaches, but doesn’t say anything. Bucky’s not surprised. He knows what he must look like.

He had done his best to wash up before leaving the motel. The Soldier hadn’t cared what he’d looked like, but Barnes had been very insistent that he at least _try_ to look like a presentable human being. So he’d washed himself off in the sink, just to rid himself of the worst traces of sweat and grime, and also to make Barnes shut up and leave him alone. He had tried to hide the worst of his hair underneath his baseball cap, but it had come loose on his walk over. It’s greasy and matted, and he’s very much aware that his clothes are still unwashed, and smelling faintly of vomit. Not his most dignified moment, but unlike Barnes, Bucky doesn’t have the energy to care.

He pays for his purchase and starts the journey back to the motel.  However, he hasn’t gotten further than a block away from the store when a noise from a nearby alley catches his attention.

Stopping, Bucky resists the urge to reach for the gun tucked into the lining of his pants as he gazes into the dusk of the pathway ahead. There aren’t any movements, and he’s just about to deem the noise a figment of his imagination when he hears it again. It’s a voice coming from the other side of the alley, originating from behind a row of dumpsters lining the wall. Bucky quickly steps into the dark and presses his back against the dumpster closest to him, listening.

The voice belongs to a man, and the low murmur suggests that he’s talking to someone. There is no second voice, which means that the man is most likely on the phone, but he’s speaking so low Bucky can’t make out what he’s saying.

In hindsight, he can’t recall what it is that makes him go closer. There’s no immediate threat, no illegal activity to speak of; just a guy on his phone. However, in a city like New York, if a call has to be made from the depths of a back alley, the conversation’s seldom about something the caller wants made public.

The need to make sure draws him forward, but as Bucky peeks his head around the corner of the final dumpster, the sight that meets his eye is not at all what he’d imagined.

There is indeed a man in the alley, but he’s not on the phone. And he’s not alone, either.

The man is leaning against the brick wall, his head tipped back towards the sky, jaw slack. On the ground in front of him is a woman. She’s on her knees, with both of the man’s hands tangled in her hair as her heads bobs up and down in a steady rhythm.  

There’s nothing spectacular, or even particularly interesting about the scene, and yet Bucky can’t bring himself to look away. He stares, frozen in place, helpless in his own inability to make himself move.

He knows what they’re doing, of course; he’s not an idiot. He also knows that according to the movies advertised on a few of the T.V. channels back at his motel room, this is something that he as a man is supposed to find appealing.

This scene is _not_ appealing. The garbage in the dumpster reeks, there are people yelling at each other in the apartments above, and the noises coming from the girl’s throat have Bucky recalling what he himself had sounded like throwing up in the bathroom just a few days prior.  

Then, the man turns his head to the side and opens his eyes to look right at him. Bucky stares back. Neither of them say anything, and after a few seconds, the guy’s lip quirks up into a sly grin. Winking at Bucky, the man tips his head back with a ragged moan as he grabs a firmer hold of the girl’s hair to make her pick up the pace, and Bucky feels his stomach clench.

He walks away. His feet move of their own accord as he hurries back to the motel, keeping his head down, his eyes to the ground. By the time he returns to his room, his pulse has increased significantly compared to normal, and the stir in his stomach hasn’t stopped.

He tries to eat some of the food he bought, but he barely manages half a ration. ( _Meals,_ Barnes reminds him with exasperation. _They’re called_ meals.) It’s like the nausea from the withdrawal all over again, and Bucky knows where that usually ends up if he tries to eat more than his body wants him to. So he goes to bed in an attempt to sleep it off. Since his recovery, he’s had the sheets changed—by him, not the maid, he doesn’t want anyone else in his room—and even though he hasn’t found the energy to clean himself properly yet, he’s still grateful for the fresh scent of washed linens as he puts his head on the pillow.

Not that it helps him sleep.

Whenever he closes his eyes, he’s back in that alley. Meeting the man’s smirk and knowing smile, over and over, the scene etched into his memory. The sound of the man’s moan echoing between brick walls haunts him, and he’s unable to make it stop. He doesn’t become aware of the fact that he’s hard until he shifts to lie on his side and feels his erection rub against the inside of his jeans. The sensation catches him off guard, and he grows still.

Just like with the events in the alley, he knows what it means, knows how it’s supposed to make him feel. But it doesn’t _feel_ anything like he would have guessed it would. It’s a twinge, low in his stomach, a throb in the centre of his chest, and he can’t recall—

Sexual arousal isn’t something he’s used to. In fact, he can’t remember the last time he’d experienced a condition even remotely like this.

 _It’s the drugs,_ Barnes whispers. _The ones they used on us to make sure we stayed docile. Apparently, our temper wasn’t the only things they wanted to keep down._

There’s a joke in there somewhere, Bucky can tell, but he doesn’t understand it. Even though he feels like he should.

Shifting again, Bucky tries to get comfortable, but it doesn’t work. He grunts at the way his jeans constrict around his genitals, and he twists around to lie on his stomach in an attempt to ease the discomfort.  

The instant feeling of pleasure that shoots through his gut as he pushes his hips against the mattress, however, quickly has him forgetting about the fit of his clothes. He repeats the movement, slower, groaning low in his throat as the sensation registers again. Vaguely, he remembers that this is a good thing. Something he in a past life would never have dreamt of ever denying himself.

His breath shudders as he props himself up on his elbows to gain more leverage, making his lower body jerk in response.

He starts slow.

Keeping the thrusts shallow at first, he tests out the friction of the mattress while pressing himself against it. It feels good, and his stomach does that sizzling thing again, only now it doesn’t feel as strange and scary anymore.

As he increases the pressure, Bucky allows his head to drop down onto the pillow with a soft sigh. His body is moving effortlessly as the natural instinct of seeking out the pleasure takes over his brain, one gratifying thrust at a time. His heartbeat quickens, and his breathing grows ragged from the effort to keep himself up, and he has to grit his teeth to keep a moan from clawing out of his mouth as he feels himself twitch inside his underwear.  

He manages to keep the slow pace for almost three full minutes before an unexpected convulsion of his muscles shakes him out of it. It shoves his pelvis down, harder, and after that there’s no going back. Rutting against the sheets, Bucky gasps at the electric tingle that travels through his limbs, growing stronger, lasting longer until its the only thing he can focus on.

His fingers curl into the pillow as he buries an awestruck sob into the fabric. He can’t keep his eyes open anymore, it feels too good. The throbbing in his gut is almost painful now, and his lungs strain for air at the same time as his body fights to both keep and break the rhythm it’s set up. He can’t control it anymore than he can stop it, and Bucky can’t breathe, he can’t think, he can’t—  

Slack jawed, Bucky presses the side of his face into the pillow as he comes. Soundless. Breathless. His cock pulses inside his pants, and he feels the sticky warmth of his climax as it coats his skin.

It’s over far too quickly: a pleasure so sharp he barely gets a chance to properly feel it before it’s gone. He sags onto the bed, exhausted, with limbs that tremble and whirrs, both from strain and shock.

To think that he had once done this, regularly even, is impossible. How does one forget such a feeling? He must have, however, because now when it’s over, he feels… Disappointed? Incomplete? As if his body remembers the experience as something even more spectacular. Like something had been missing?

He groans as he rolls onto his back. Now that the endorphins have worn off, the mess in his pants is just uncomfortable. He shimmies out of his jeans, and pulls the shorts down along with them, grimacing as he tosses them over the edge of the bed. He’ll clean them in the morning. Seeing as all of his clothes could use a washing, he ought to go looking for a laundromat anyway. He’ll need to find another motel as well. He’s outstayed this one for far too long already.

Pulling the sheets up high around his shoulders, Bucky makes himself comfortable. The agitation he had felt from before is gone now. His body feels calm and at ease; another novelty. Although, much as the one he had just experienced, this is also one he might consider getting used to.  

He turns over to lie on his side and reaches through the dark to make sure his gun is still taped to the bottom of the drawer of his nightstand. Feeling the cool touch of metal under his fingertips calms him even further, and he closes his eyes with a sigh and a slight frown. He doesn’t enjoy sleeping without clothes. The prospect of a sudden escape in nothing but the skin on his back is about as appealing as it would be inconspicuous.

But for tonight, just this once, he decides that he’ll be willing to make an exception.

 


	3. 3

****He finds a laundromat, as well as a new motel. However, dressing himself in clean clothes while he still smells of sick isn’t very effective. He needs to get clean, too, _wants_ to get clean, yet it is with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that he enters the bathroom of his new motel room.

The bath is clad in white tiles, with accents in the form of an azure shower curtain and deep blue towels. It smells fresh, and clean, and Bucky hates it.

He would have prefered it if the place had been rundown and smelling of mold rather than this pristine and spotless perfection in front of him. Despite the blue accents, it still reminds him too much of the facility they used to send him to before putting him back into cryo sleep. The sterilization room.

The uneasiness he feels as he begins to strip out of his clothes grows to a fine tremble when he steps into the tub. The air isn’t cold, he knows that, but it still feels freezing against his skin. Turning the knob to get the water running takes more effort than he’d imagined, and he gasps as the flow hits his bare shoulders, ice cold. He makes no attempt to heat it up. Cold water makes it easier.

At the facility, the water had always been close to scalding hot. For efficiency. They’d used it to hose him down to get rid of the grime, and the dirt—sometimes blood. The acrid smell of something that’d been more disinfectant than soap is still vivid in his memory, and nothing like the sweet scented bar of soap he now uses to lather himself up.

He squeezes his eyes shut as he brings the soap to his hair, fighting off the phantom sensations that come with it—hands of strangers rubbing the substance into his scalp and over his skin, working hard enough to bruise—had he only been able to. Everything quick and efficient. Like cleaning off a piece of equipment.

He remembers steam as it had clouded his vision, filled up his lungs, making it hard to breathe. Silently, he had waited for it to end while dread had coiled through his gut, tying it into knots. Because he had always known what came after, once the shower was done.    

_Wipe him._

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until the gasps of his own sobbing breath reach his ears, ricocheting off the tiles around him. He’s shaking so hard his teeth clatter, but it’s not from the cold.

He throws up.

With spit running down his jaw and tears mixing with the water already streaming down his face, he sags to the floor of the tub. The white tiles have turned to a blur around him. The burn in his eyes makes everything look like mist, like steam, and his head fills with voices barking orders at him from the past. A whine claws itself out of his throat as he presses his back against the other end of the tub, clutching his head in his hands and squeezing his eyes shut. He cries, cries until his throat is raw, until his head feels empty, and his chest aches with the effort to draw breath.

He doesn't know how long he stays there, hunched up on the floor of the tub with the water washing down the drain in front of him. By the time the voices stop and his vision clears, his teeth are still clattering from the force of his shaking.

Standing up takes time. His muscles won't listen as he tries to make them work, and when he finally gets out of the tub and gets to wrap a towel around himself, he has to sit down on the floor again. Just until the room stops spinning.

He might not be as clean as he would have liked, but at least he emerges from the bathroom in a better state of sanitation than he’d entered it.

 

/\/\/\

Time passes.

He returns to the library, and continues to go back whenever he can, without making his presence there too frequent. He keeps himself updated on the state of the world.

The events in D.C. had literally rocked the nation’s sense of security to its foundations, and the effects are going to be felt for a long time to come. But they’re all on a bigger scale than he is. At least for now.

The effects of HYDRA's drugs are slowly leaving his system, one at a time. Although, he finds, not all of them.

Food is still a problem, mostly due to his lack of appetite. Eating anything other than nutrition bars is something he can barely remember, and other kinds of food still feel strange to him. Chewing anything for too long makes it feel like the food is coming alive in his mouth, squirming to get away even as he swallows. He doesn't like it. Sometimes it makes him throw up, even though he tries to fight it, but it doesn't always work.

He gets frequent headaches, and at the end of his second month in New York he feels like he hasn’t spent a day of his life without his head relentlessly pounding.  

In June it becomes official that SHIELD has been labeled a terrorist organisation due to the redheaded Avenger’s initiative of spreading classified information on the Internet. However, what will become of the Avengers in the wake of that, the news will not say.

HYDRA appears to be done for as well. They’re busy with other things—like keeping themselves from being picked off by officials and headhunters alike—besides looking for the missing Winter Soldier. Which is a relief. It leaves Bucky with plenty of time to focus on his own recovery, now that his arm has healed. Even though he’s getting better, he still has a long way to reach the same physical peak as he had under HYDRA’s regimen. He’s not as strong, not as fast. And yet, he finds that he’s actually come to grow more comfortable in his new skin than he had been in his old one. He feels lighter, less encumbered. After all, this new life of his means more hiding than fighting, and as long as he keeps his head on straight, he won’t need to regain the extra muscle he's already lost.

His physical vigor _is_ slowly coming back to him, however. Although, in the form of new, and to him unforeseen, ways….

One would think that he’d remember the phenomenon of morning wood, but nonetheless, waking up from rubbing himself against the sheets still leaves him feeling discomfited and breathless every time it happens.

It’s good, though. Like… better than eating, at least. But it still feels like he’s doing it wrong. Even with his hands, it’s still too brief. Too simple. And yet no matter how often he succumbs to the temptation of it, the need to do it again doesn’t stop. He finds himself restless, with an itch clawing under his skin that he can’t shake.

He’s missing something. Something _important._

Really, he should have been able to figure it out himself, but it turns out he’s still too far into HYDRA’s headspace to realize the truth. Not until it’s right there in front of him, staring him in the face.

He’s at the library when it happens. Lately he's begun researching the years he had lost while in HYDRA’s care, and the war that had followed in the wake of his presumed death. He’s skimming the shelves looking for a book on the battle of Normandy when he catches a movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning his head to the side, he looks down the aisle towards the reading tables, and spots a young couple seated in the row closest to him. They’re young, but from the locks of it well out of their teens. They’re huddled down over a selection of dictionaries and notebooks, facing him. To anyone else in the room it looks like a pair of hardworking students studying for exams, but that’s not what Bucky sees.

Bucky sees what’s happening underneath the edge of the table, where the girl _(dame?)_ is running her hand slowly up and down the muscle of the young man’s thigh. Every now and then, she stops to give his leg a light squeeze, and whenever she does, the guy inhales deeply and clenches his jaw, as if steeling himself. He smiles at her, however, and she smiles right back. A quirk of the lips, a knowing look, and Bucky’s mind reels back in time to summer nights long since lost, of music playing in the distance, and how the world had spun while hands had run down the line of his back through his clothes, squeezing lightly.

Touch.

Of course.

That's what he's been missing: _touch._

The moment the thought hits him, it genuinely surprises him that he hadn't thought of that before. After all, how long had it been since anyone actually put their hands on him? Not counting the times when people’s attempts at throwing punches had actually succeeded. Or when he had gotten shoved and pushed around by his handlers. Had it been as far back as during the war? Before that, even?

He can’t even recall.

He looks away from the couple as he heads further amongst the shelves in the hunt for his book. However, the titles of the spines before him drift by in a blur as he can’t stop thinking about the many questions that rises in the wake of his discovery.  

Is he a virgin?

Logically speaking he should have at least kissed someone before the war, but there’s no way for him to be sure. What if he’s never been with anyone, in _any_ way?

It feels improbable. If he never slept with anyone, then why does his body crave physical pleasure so much? Can you miss something you’ve never had?

In the end, he leaves the library empty handed, too distracted to find what he’d been looking for. As he comes home, he continues to turn the problem back and forth inside his head, studying it from every possible angle.

He knows what the easiest solution would be, of course. It’s not as if the social phenomenon of prostitution has been lost on him. It’s been around long enough to be considered the world’s oldest registered profession, and considering the knowledge he appears to have on its functions, he’s convinced that he’s used that knowledge to hunt down targets on previous missions before. Not that he’d know for certain.

The problem is not choosing the how. It’s the _who._

Again, like so many times before when thinking of sexual pleasure, the memory of the man in the alley is the one that keeps coming back to haunt him. And finally, Bucky thinks he’s figured out why.

Because that night Bucky hadn’t reacted to the girl.

Looking at her had left him unaffected, uncomfortable, even. It hadn’t been until he’d made eye contact with the man that his body had decided to get in on the situation. During the past weeks, he can’t recall having thought of the woman even once, and the more he thinks about it, the thought of a woman feels downright… wrong.

So that’s the first step, then. If he’s truly contemplating on doing this, it has to be with a man. But it can’t be just _any_ man.

A drug user is out of the question. Bucky has no intentions of going through withdrawal twice, and any sort of distraction from his resolve would simply be unacceptable.

Also, Bucky’s been sick. His body is weakened, and he’s lost a lot of his fighting edge during the past months. Even with the advantage of his left arm, attempting to fight off an attacker with a weapon aimed his way would be a greater risk than he's willing to take right now. He’s got a feeling that getting naked and physical with someone will be a difficult task all on its own, and he doesn’t need the added risk of picking a guy that’s able to overpower him on top of that. He should go for someone smaller; petite, even. After all, it’s just sex, right? The majority of body parts involved shouldn’t matter as long as it gets the main job done.

And speaking of body parts…

Bucky’s not an idiot. He realizes that if he’s going to undress for sex, his arm is going to become a problem. He won’t be able to keep it covered, not with that proximity, so whoever he picks is going to have to be able to deal with both it being there, and the trust not to go blabbing his mouth about it to others.

Enough time still hasn’t passed for SHIELD’s dumped files to reach the public eye, but the government has eyes and ears everywhere… Indiscretion is a trait he can’t afford.

One would think that the arm itself would be enough to ensure his safety, but the truth is that simply having the arm won’t cut it. The damn thing is heavy, and with his muscle deterioration and lack of training, he’s not entirely sure how efficient he’d be with it in a pressed situation. For now, until he’s had the time to get himself back into shape, he’ll have to trust that its mere presence will be enough to discourage anyone from trying their luck with him.

Any kind of intimidation that Bucky can pull off in his current condition is a fight won. If his arm’s appearance can be enough to scare whoever he picks for this into silence, then that’s just going to have to be good enough.

So to sum it up, he’s looking for a male sex worker on the smaller side, who’s clean of drugs, professional, and dependable enough to keep his _mouth shut._

All Bucky has to do, is to find somebody like that, and he already has a pretty good idea about where to start.

He waits until nightfall to leave the motel. Heading southwest, he keeps a lookout for bars and nightclubs, taking note of the people standing idly at the street corners outside. Admittedly, he can’t remember ever having to seek out a prostitute in person, but that apparently doesn’t stop him from knowing where to look.

And sure enough, it doesn’t take him long before he sees a car roll up to the curb, and how a woman steps out to meet it by leaning down towards the car window. He hurries his steps, thinking he might have to intercept the conversation before she actually gets in the car, but he doesn’t have to. Within seconds, the woman straightens up again, and flips the car the bird as it takes off down the street with an angry screech of tires.

“Tough client?” Bucky asks, stopping a few feet behind her, and the woman whips her head around to look at him. In a flash, her angry glare turns soft, and her lips part in a charming smile that doesn’t look nearly as genuine as she probably thinks it does.

“Just some asshole,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand towards the disappearing car. “Nothing to worry about.” She steps closer, looking him up and down. “So what’s a handsome guy like you doing out here all by yourself? Looking for company?”

Straight to the point. Good, it’ll save him time.

“Actually, I am,” Bucky replies. “But I’m afraid the kind I’m looking for is not of the feminine variety.”

“Oh.” Immediately, the woman’s smile fades.

“Yeah. So here’s my offer.” Bucky reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bill. “I’ll pay you whatever fee you usually charge, and you give me a name.”

The woman eyes the bill in his hand with suspicious eyes, and then she looks at him. “You a cop or something?” she asks.

“I am not,” Bucky replies, just as flatly.

“Yeah, right,” the woman says with a snort. “That’s a lot of money for just a name, buddy.”

“I have very specific needs,” Bucky insists, and this time, she actually laughs.

“Oh, honey, don’t they all.” However, as she throws another glance at the money, Bucky can see her resolve falter even before she opens her mouth. “Tell you what,” she says. “You add three more of those to the pot, and I might consider it.”

“How about four?” Bucky says at the same time as he adds the money to his hand. He barely has time to let the money go before she’s snatched it out of his hand.

“Alright,” she says, paging through the bills. “So tell me about these ‘special needs’ of yours. What kinda guy are you looking for?”

“He’s small,” Bucky replies. “Professional. He doesn’t deal in drugs, or use them, and he doesn’t rat out his clients. To anyone.”

“Sounds like Rogers, to me,” the woman says without a second of hesitation. “He’s got a place up in Crown Heights. Deals with clean people only, and I mean _clean_ in every way _._ He doesn’t take clients without a medical check, so you’re gonna need papers if you wanna spend time with him.”

“And is he discreet?”

“Silent like the grave,” the woman insists.

Bucky nods. “That’s all the information I need.” He pulls out another two bills and holds them up. “I assume I can trust your discretion as well?”

“For you, honey,” she says with a smile—a proper one, this time—as she plucks the cash from his hand, “my lips are permanently sealed.”

 

/\/\/\

 

It doesn’t take Bucky long to find out exactly who Rogers is.

Steven Grant Rogers. Born and raised in Brooklyn, New York. A man in his late twenties, working as a lone escort at his own private service, no pimp. No criminal record, which means he’s been discreet enough to avoid law enforcement despite his profession, and no signs of drug use. His services are on the pricey side, but to Bucky, the money’s not a problem.

The required clean bill of health, however, is.

After all, it’s not as if Bucky can just waltz into a doctor’s office and ask for a fucking physical. And all he has for himself are the medical records from HYDRA, and he can’t exactly use those as reference. He’s studied them in search for any indications of disease, but finds none. Can he even get sick due to the serum? It sounds unlikely, but even if that’s not the case, the information in HYDRA’s documents doesn’t exactly cover STD’s.

He could fake credentials. It would be easy enough, but a part of him—Barnes, to be precise—tells him very sternly that that’s not the way to do things. Not anymore. By providing information he has no way of knowing to be true, Bucky would take away Roger’s option to choose, just like his own options were taken away from him by HYDRA. He can’t do that; not for something selfish like his.

Still, the more he learns about Rogers, the more convinced he is that he truly is the one he should go to, if anyone.

He starts by staking out Rogers’ apartment in Crown Heights.

At first he thinks it’s just a place used for meeting clients—like an office of sorts, but it quickly becomes apparent that this isn’t the case. Bucky can’t believe Rogers is doing this kind of business in his own home. Not due to the nature of his work, but because of the risks that come with it. Even though his clients appear to be both few and hand-picked, that doesn’t automatically make them safe. Contrary to popular belief.

It’s in a good location, though. Second floor, with windows high off the ground. The view in from the outside is minimal, with plenty of trees obscuring the windows both in the drive at the street outside, and the yard out back. Out of the surrounding houses, there’s only one that’s taller than the one Rogers lives in, and it’s on the other end of the block. As long as Bucky doesn’t go out onto the balcony, there would be no way for anyone to get a clean shot, not even him.

He sees men come and go. _Only_ men, never women, which confirms the information already provided to him. He sees Rogers too, and damn, he really is small. He's not sickly looking—there are _some_ muscles—but Bucky suspects the guy wouldn’t be able to go one-on-one with anything older than a high schooler with hopes of winning. As far as Bucky understands it, Rogers’ body type prevents him from being viewed as stereotypically attractive by society, but he doesn’t really see why. Rogers’ face is handsome, and he’s clearly male enough to not pass for a woman. He’s got clean, sharp features, and his smile is as genuine as they get. Both the Soldier and Barnes agrees with Bucky as he reaches the conclusion that Rogers is actually pretty cute.

Rogers always smiles while greeting his clients at the door, and they always smile back. Some of them bring him gifts: flowers, takeaway food… Bucky wonders if that’s part of the deal, or if it’s something the clients do out of kindness and appreciation. Perhaps Rogers is simply that good?

Everything points to this guy being the right choice, and yet, Bucky finds himself hesitating.

Does he really need to do this? Is it _really_ that important?

He’s been so careful all this time to avoid any situation that might compromise him, and here he is contemplating risking all of it just to get himself off? Just thinking about how much effort he’s put into this already has him feeling silly all of a sudden. Really, if he wants sex then finding someone for a quick romp in an alley shouldn’t be that hard. There are gay bars, clubs, specific places he could go, and he wouldn’t even have to take off anything other than his pants. If that. So why has he gone through all this trouble?

 _You really don’t get it, do you?_ Barnes pipes up from inside his head.

 _Get what?_ Bucky mutters back.

 _It’s not about the sex,_ Barnes replies. _You can go pay for as many orgasms as you can afford, but that’s not really what you want, is it?_

_What else would it be?_

_You’re a clever guy,_ Barnes says. _You’ll figure it out._

But Bucky doesn’t.

He thinks about it for an entire week, trying to understand what it is he’s not seeing, but it doesn’t help. Barns stays quiet the whole time, and the Soldier has no other valid input other than telling him to stop being such a fucking pussy about it.

So in the end, that’s the advice Bucky takes.

He waits until Rogers’ regular Tuesday client has left before he heads up the stairs to his apartment and rings the doorbell. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds before footsteps are heard from the other side, followed by the soft click of the lock, just before the door cracks opens.

Rogers peers out at him through the gap between the door and doorframe, his expression polite but guarded. He still has the safety chain on.

“Can I help you?” he asks. His voice is a lot deeper than Bucky had been expecting.

“Are you Steve Rogers?” Bucky asks, and Rogers frowns back.

“Depends,” he replies. “What can I do for you?”

Bucky swallows, but suddenly he has no idea what to say. Standing there, meeting the gaze from the crack in the door before him, it’s like the tactical side of him has been put in a mental headlock. How does one even request sex from a complete stranger without making it sound crude? Bucky doesn’t want to be crude. He wants to— He wants—

He realizes that he’s gaping, and he quickly clears his throat, looking away. “I— I heard that you… That you were the one to talk to about…” Bucky licks his lips, searching for the words. “People say that you’re a— I mean, not _people_ , but people like, do what you do… They say—”

He glances up, and the words die on the tip of his tongue when he sees that Rogers is smiling at him. Not mockingly, but with sympathy.

“Oh, boy,” Rogers says softly. “You’re new to this, aren’t you?”

Bucky blinks, and Rogers laughs, closing the door. The safety chain rattles, and then the door opens again to Rogers gesturing for him to come inside. He’s looking at Bucky with an amused glint in his eyes, and Bucky fights down the sheepish churn that rises in his stomach as he obediently steps over the threshold.

“Please, take your shoes off,” Rogers instructs, and Bucky does as he’s told. He doesn't like leaving his possessions unguarded, but he also doesn’t want to put the guy off.

As he leans down to untie his boots he throws a quick glance around the apartment. It’s a nice-looking place. From where he stands, Bucky counts a total of two rooms, one a joint kitchen-living room area. Hardwood floors, new wallpaper. Neat. Fresh. He takes a pleased note of the home alarm console on the wall next to the front door, and the aluminum baseball bat that's leaning against the wall, partially hidden by the coat rack. Looks like Rogers isn’t as oblivious to the risks of his line of work after all.

Bucky puts his shoes in the shoe rack and turns around, finding that Rogers is still looking at him from across the room.

“You’re not a cop, are you?” Rogers asks.

“No,” Bucky answers. Seriously, why does everyone keep asking him that?

“Military?” Rogers prompts. When all Bucky does is frown, Rogers nods to his posture. “You stand like a soldier,” he explains. “And you checked for alternate escape routes the first thing you did when you walked in.”

Bucky glances around the room again, and as his gaze falls on the curtained windows, he realizes that yeah, he had. And he hadn’t even noticed.

“Don’t worry,” Rogers tells him. “Veterans do that a lot. You’re not the first.”

Bucky licks his lips, and Steve smiles at him again. It’s an endearing smile, one that once again has Bucky at a loss for words. He’s not sure if he’s expected to reply to that, and if so in what manner. Casual conversation isn’t something he’d taken into account when planning this.

“So,” Rogers says with a wide gesture towards the couch by the wall. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” He walks ahead of Bucky and sits down on the far end, and after a moment’s hesitation, Bucky follows.

Rogers’ posture is relaxed and at ease. He leans back against the corner of the couch with his entire body facing Bucky, open and inviting. He’s not flirty, not like the woman from the other day had been flirty. He doesn’t look at Bucky like he’s sizing him up for consumption, doesn’t call him pet names, and he makes no attempt to touch him whatsoever. He just sits on his end of the couch with one leg crossed over his knee, as if he’s waiting for Bucky to speak.

Bucky has no idea what to say, and it’s with a surprised jolt to his pride that he realizes that he’s _nervous._

He also realizes that Rogers is _much_ prettier up close. The features of his face are much clearer, his eyes brighter and more blue than they had been from afar. The little curl of a smile that lingers at the corner of his mouth appears to be a constant rather than a temporary presence, which is a feature Bucky hadn’t even considered a possibility. His fingers are long and slender, and there’s something effortlessly elegant in the way they rest against the top of the couch’s backrest that have Bucky’s thoughts dazedly distracted.

“So,” Rogers says. “What can I do for you…” He looks at Bucky with a pointed arch of his eyebrow. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Bucky,” Bucky replies hoarsely. Finally, a question he knows how to answer without making a fool of himself.

“Bucky,” Rogers repeats. “That’s a cool name.” He gives him a curious look up and down. “I assume you know what I do for a living, huh, Bucky?”

“Yes.”

“And I also assume that’s why you’re here?”

Bucky nods, and Rogers mimics him with a contemplative purse of his lips.

“You know, you’re gonna have to tell me what kind of company you’re looking for,” he says softly, “or we’re gonna be sitting here for ages.”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says, because, really, he doesn’t. He has no clue, but Rogers doesn’t seem to be deterred by his lack of knowledge on the topic.

“Alright,” he says simply. “Then how about you tell me a little bit about yourself, for starters?”

“I’d rather not,” Bucky objects reluctantly.

“Secretive, huh?” Rogers smile, apparently amused. “That’s alright, I can play along. So riddle me this instead, Bucky: when’s the last time you got laid?”

“I—” Bucky cuts himself off to look down at his lap as he curls his gloved metal hand into a fist. “I don’t remember,” he admits quietly.

“Huh,” Rogers says. “Must’ve been one bad lay.”

“No, I— I mean, I literally don’t remember.” Bucky looks up and meets the other man’s gaze. He knows that he can’t tell him the truth, not the whole truth at least, but… he can tell him _some_ of them. “I was in an accident,” he says. “And my memories they… I lost them.”

“Oh.” Immediately, Rogers sits up taller in his seat as his smile fades slightly. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Bucky says. “It’s just that… I need to re-learn some stuff. At this point, I can’t even remember if I even learned about them in the first place, so…”

“No, no, I get it,” Rogers says. “Of course, I— Wow, that’s not at all what I was expecting.” He looks at him and lets out an astonished laugh under his breath. “Are you sure you don’t wanna… you know, wait for someone else to teach you? Someone special, I mean?”

“No,” Bucky replies. “No, I just wanna learn. I just… wanna get touched by someone.”

“Alright,” Rogers says with a solemn nod of his head. “I can help with that.”

“I might need more than, you know, once,” Bucky warns, and this time Rogers expression shifts into something vaguely impressed.

“You know my charge, right?” he asks. “I don’t do quantity discounts.”

“Money’s not a problem.”

Rogers narrows his eyes at him. “You’re gonna have to excuse me, but you don’t exactly look like you’re good for a promise like that.”

Bucky takes the hint. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a bundle of bills and extends them towards Rogers from across the couch. Rogers takes them warily, as if he doesn’t quite trust them. He counts quickly, and then nods as he puts them on the coffee table.

“Alright,” he says. “Consider it a date.” He moves as if he’s about to stand up, but Bucky intercepts him.

“There’s one more thing,” he says, and Rogers gives him a curious look that for some reason has Bucky’s throat running dry. “I, uh… I was told that you, uhm… That you request a doctor’s notice from your clients.”

“I do,” Rogers replies, but before Bucky can continues, he asks, “Why, you don’t have one?”

“I don’t,” Bucky admits. He shouldn’t feel bad about it; he shouldn’t feel like he’s just confessed to something shameful, but he does. And it only gets worse when Rogers gives him a shrug and stands up anyway.

“Well, you’re gonna need one,” he says, “or I won’t be able to help you.”

“I can’t get it,” Bucky objects.

“Sure you can,” Rogers replies. “There are free clinics all over the place, just visit one.”

“No, you don’t— I mean, I can’t. I need you to make an exception.”

“Not gonna happen, pal.”

“Please.” Bucky stands up. He realizes as he does it that by doing so, he immediately makes a significantly more intimidating image than he had while sitting down, and so he compensates by taking a step back, just as fast. Rogers, however, doesn’t seem the slightest startled by his sudden movement as he just looks at him, and Bucky feels the first unfamiliar tendrils of panic as they begin to crawl through his chest.

“I’m clean,” he promises. “I can’t prove it to you, but I am, I swear it.”

“You just told me you can’t even remember whether you’ve had sex or not,” Rogers argues. “Besides, you think you’re the first person to come in here swearing up and down they’re all good?” He tilts his head with a suspicious squint of his eyes. “What’s this really about, huh? You’re in a relationship with someone? You don’t want them to find out you went and got yourself tested? You scared they’re gonna realize you’re cheating on them.”

“I’m not in a relationship.”

“I think you’re lying,” Rogers argues. “Hell, maybe you’ve even got a wife? Is that it? You’re bi, or gay, and they don’t know?”

“Listen, it’s not like that!” Bucky raises his voice as he says it. He doesn’t mean to, but he can’t stop himself from doing it nonetheless. The composure he’s so used to has abandoned him, and even though he feels Barnes and the Soldier attempt to reason with him from the back of his mind, he can’t register anything they’re saying.

“I—” Bucky swallows hard as he hears his voice threaten to crack. “I just need you to trust me.”

Rogers looks at him. “I’m gonna need more than that,” he says. “Sorry.”

“Okay,” Bucky says. “Okay, alright.” He chucks his jacket off, even as the cautious part of his brain screams at him not to. Why is he so desperate for this? He’s not even been here ten minutes, and already it’s as if his life—his very existence—depends on whether or not Rogers says yes. “Just look,” he says. He tears his glove off his left hand, yanking up the sleeve of his shirt as far as it will go, and holds it out for the other man to see.

Rogers stares. He stares for so long, Bucky expects him to either faint, or make an attempt to flee the apartment. However, once Rogers reacts, he does so by slowly licking his lips as he drags in a deep breath through his nose, arching his eyebrows.

“Well,” he says slowly. “That’s… different.” He brings a hand to his mouth and rubs it over his lips. “You— I’m sorry, is that, like… your _actual_ arm? Like, it’s not just some sort of sleeve?”

“It’s attached to my shoulder,” Bucky explains. He looks Rogers in the eyes as he adds, grimly, “Although, not with my consent.”

Rogers stares at him, and then looks at the arm again. As he reaches out to touch it, however, Bucky yanks his arm away with a sharp gasp, hating himself for feeling the need to do so.

“I can’t go to a doctor,” he says as he pulls his sleeve back down, before Rogers can mention his reaction. “Not with this. There will be too many questions, and I— Please. I know it’s asking a lot, but _please._ ”

At that, Rogers turns away. He takes a few steps across the room, and then turns back to give Bucky a long look. “You know there are others who’d be willing to help you, right?” he asks. “That won’t have any issues with your lack of health, or… other conditions?”

“I know,” Bucky replies. “But it’s because you're that cautious that I want it to be you.”

Rogers snorts as he looks away, shaking his head. Bucky’s heart drops.

“Listen,” Rogers says. “This ain’t just my business, alright, it’s my _life_ . I’d be putting my own health on the line, and that’s not gonna happen. Not with stuff like AIDS and HIV around, there’s no way in hell that I’m gonna take that risk. _But,_ ” he adds, making Bucky perk up. “I’ll throw you this deal: I’ll keep half of this money you just gave me, and schedule you two and a half weeks from now. That should be long enough for you to get both a doctor’s appointment, and your test results ready. All you have to do is get here, bring a bill of clean health along with you, and you’ve got yourself a deal. Don’t worry about the…” He makes an indecisive wave at Bucky’s arm. “They don’t need to see that. Trust me, I do this on a regular basis, and there’s no need for them to see you with your shirt off. Just make sure they can draw blood from the other arm, and you’re good.”

Bucky nods. He’s not sure what he’s agreeing to, but for some inexplicable reason, as this man, this complete stranger tells him to trust him on his word, Bucky does.

“Alright,” he says, and Rogers nods.

“Good,” he says. He walks up to the side table next to the couch, and picks up a smart phone. “You got any specific time that’ll suit you better? Evening, lunch time?”

“No,” Bucky replies. “Whenever’s fine.”

Rogers nods, and types something into the device with a few swipes of his thumb. Then, he tucks the phone into the back of his pocket, picks up the cash from the table, and hands Bucky half of it.

“Two and a half weeks, Wednesday, five PM. Don’t be late,” he says, before adding with a pointed look. “And make sure to get a shower. If you show up smelling the same way you do now, the deal’s off no matter how clean you are on paper.”

  



	4. 4

**** Rogers hadn’t been lying when he told Bucky there were free clinics all over the city. There are, and most of them don’t even require you to book an appointment in advance. However, it still takes Bucky two days of careful contemplation and research just to decide which one of them he should go to.

Once it had become clear that he didn’t have a choice but to get the medical check, he hadn’t wasted any time finding out  _ exactly  _ what would be expected of him once he got there. How much information he’d have to give them. His research pays off, because sure enough, as he steps through the doors to the clinic, the only thing they ask of him is his name, and his birth date. No social security number, no address, no next of kin. Just his name and his birthday. Bucky gives them both, although with the latter slightly moderated. 

They ask him if he wants a man or a woman to perform the checkup, and he picks the woman. HYDRA had no female doctors (or women of any other profession, for that matter) working with the Asset. To have a woman perform the checkup might help ease his nerves, even if just slightly. It’s most likely an outdated opinion, but Barnes also insists that perhaps a woman will be gentler. Softer.

Bucky is both tense and nervous by the time the nurse calls his name out in the waiting room. Nobody touches him as he walks into the examination room, but that doesn’t stop the pace of his heart from picking up. The thought of doctors has him feeling anxious, even though he knows this place is the furthest he can possibly get from the facility in Siberia and the abuse he had faced there. Or anything HYDRA had done to him. 

Once, there must have been a time when he had viewed doctors the same as everybody else. Like a stranger that’ll flutter by briefly, routinely, with a calm reassurance that he’s being looked after by someone who cares what’s best for him. That’s what he tries to tap into, that sense of calm he’s certain must still be inside him, somewhere, when the doctor closes the door behind him.

The doctor is a woman in her late fifties, and she greets him with a smile and a gentle handshake. Her hands are cold. But soft. She asks him what he’d like to be tested for, and Bucky replies, truthfully, “Everything.”

She makes smalltalk while she prepares the tests. She talks about the weather, the traffic, and no matter how short and quiet Bucky’s replies are, she still keeps smiling. She asks him to open his mouth, and he does. As she rubs a cotton swab against the inside of his cheek, Bucky struggles against the reflex of biting down over the phantom sensation of a mouth guard being inserted between his teeth. It’s over in just a few seconds, but the knot in his stomach has more than enough time to make him feel physically sick during the brief seconds it lasts.

Next, she asks him for a blood sample, and Bucky doesn’t even have to take his jacket off all the way to give it to her. He simply slides himself free of his right sleeve and holds his arm out like she asks. He swallows hard, back going rigid as he watches her pull out and prepare the vials for the blood, and she catches his gaze.

“Do you get nervous around needles, Mr Barnes?” she asks. Bucky glances at the needle on the tray next to her.

“A bit,” he says. “But it’s not as much the needle as the thought of being injected with something that worries me.”

“Well, this is not an injection, I can promise you that,” she says with a laugh as she picks up the syringe. “This is just a good old-fashioned blood test. It’ll be over before you know it.”

Bucky nods, and the woman smiles at him again. Her fingertips feel smooth again his skin as she reaches out to gently cradle his forearm.

“I have a grandson with diabetes,” she says. “He’s had it all his life, so blood tests have always been a regular occurrence for him. But I still remember when he had to learn how to do it by himself.” 

Bucky flinches when she suddenly presses the needle into the crease of his elbow. She gives him a glance before continuing in the same, calm voice as she shakes her head fondly, “Oh, he was such a mess. I swear, he tried to make himself push the button on that lancing device for five whole minutes before he finally managed to do it. Cried his heart out the whole time too, poor thing, but he still refused to let anyone help him. Four years old, and already a fighter.” She sighs. “After that, it was like his fear of needles went away. Just like that.”

Bucky looks down as she gives his elbow a light pat, realizing as he does that the needle is gone and that’s she’s just replaced it with a plain, beige band-aid.

“Right,” she says. “Just one more test to go. If you’d mind removing your underwear?”

This is the part Bucky’s been feeling most nervous about, but not in the same way as he had been dreading the rest. Where he had feared pain before, he now fears… ignorance. Inexperience. Of somehow doing this  _ wrong. _

However, the doctor keeps talking, and smiling. While she does her job, she enthusiastically goes on about how she had almost gotten rammed by another car at the grocery store parking lot the other day. Her voice is soothing, yet it demands his attention in a way that shouldn’t be possible given the situation, but Bucky finds himself listening and nodding along to her story anyway. The procedure is over quick enough, and the swab doesn’t go nearly as deep as he had expected it to, which is a significant relief. He feels close to sheepish when it’s all over. 

A swab of the mouth, a blood sample, a minute of nudity… As he goes back into the waiting room, the whole experience feels like something out of a bizarre dream.

He gets the initial results back in less than 30 minutes. They ask him to complete his information for the remaining test results with a phone number, but once Bucky specifies that he needs the results in writing, they’re satisfied with the address to his motel. He’s told that the test results will be delivered to him within two weeks, once they’re ready, and then he’s free to go.

_ Just like that.  _

 

/\/\/\

 

The papers arrive at the motel exactly eleven days later. The message they give him is clear, printed up in neat lines, and signed off with a physician’s haphazard handwriting.

He’s clean. 

In some odd way, it feels like a victory. Another step away from HYDRA and the life they forged for him after his presumed death. A triumph, all on its own. Not to mention that the paper in his hand is now also his ticket to further interactions with Rogers.

Once again, he finds himself feeling apprehensive. With the awareness that yes, he is in fact going to do this, he also realizes, more than ever, that he has absolutely no idea  _ how. _ The act of sex in itself is easy enough; he’s a mammal, and the process is more-or-less the same for everyone, but…  He also knows that there’s more to it than that. That a mere means to orgasm isn’t what he’s looking for here, and that he’s terrified to screw it up somehow. Whatever the ‘it’ is… 

At the day of his appointed meeting with Rogers, Bucky braves his demons by following the instructions given to him, and steps into the shower. 

It takes time, and he has to do it in sections, using ice cold water, but he gets it done. His hands tremble, his legs shake, but he occupies his mind with thinking about what will happen if he shows up less clean than what Rogers expects of him. The thought calms him, and he hones in on the memory of sharp cheekbones, blue eyes, and slender fingers as he scrubs himself clean until he’s certain there’s not a speck of dirt left on him. He doesn’t even throw up this time.

He has bought a new shampoo that according to the label smells of rosemary and lemongrass. It’s a pleasant scent, and when he steps out of the shower, it follows him all the way into the bedroom to linger in the air. He’s also bought new clothes, and he has to admit that the soft slide of cotton against his skin feels a lot better than the course material of the more practical garments he’s been wearing up until now. 

He combs his hair with his fingers as it dries. It had never occurred to him to purchase a brush or a comb along with the shampoo, just like he hadn’t thought of buying any form of deodorant or cologne. It strikes him as he stands there, regarding himself in the mirror, dressed in his new red henley and blue jeans, that maybe he’s still not clean enough? That maybe, even though he’s done all this to make himself presentable, Rogers might still not think him worthy of being his client. 

To be fair, the instructions of  _ how  _ thorough the required shower had to be hadn’t been very detailed.

He stops at a convenience store on the way to Rogers’ apartment and buys a deodorant stick that advertises itself as “Extra Fresh” and discreetly puts it on the moment he gets outside the store. He only has one armpit in need of it, but he’s not willing to take any chances. So he sweeps the deodorant once across his stomach and chest in a quick cross, before stuffing it into the pocket of his jacket. 

It’s still light outside when he gets to Rogers’ apartment. Bucky’s heart hammers as he reaches out and presses the button of the doorbell, but he firmly orders it to still as he hears the safety chain rattle on the other side. 

Rogers opens the door. He’s dressed in relaxed clothes; a loose t-shirt, grey sweatpants. No buttons. Easy to remove. Bucky can’t help but see the tactical advantage in his choice of attire. Rogers is smiling at him; wide and genuine, as if he’s truly happy to see him. Bucky tries to smile back, but he’s not sure how it comes out. He feels like he’s making a grimace, and he’s grateful when Rogers steps aside to gesture him inside.

“Glad you could make it,” Rogers says as he shuts the door and locks it behind them. “I was starting to wonder whether or not you’d show up.”

“We had an appointment,” Bucky replies simply. Rogers appears to find it funny, because he snorts out a laugh as he takes a step closer, looking him up and down. 

“You look good,” he offers, before leaning in and breathing in deeply through his nose. “And you smell real nice, too.”

“I’ve showered,” Bucky explains, tensing up as Rogers reaches out and nonchalantly runs his fingers along the lapel of his jacket.

“So I notice,” he says. He meets Bucky’s  gaze. “I take it that means you’re clean in more ways than one?”

Silently, Bucky reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the envelope with his test results, along with the money that had been handed back to him the last time he was there. Rogers only takes the envelope. 

He opens it up and reads the paper inside, nodding to himself. Then he looks up at Bucky and smiles as he takes the folded up bills out of Bucky’s hand and replaces them with the test results. 

“Well, Mr Barnes,” he says pointedly. “It looks like you’ve got yourself a date.” He walks over to the kitchen counter at the other end of the room and puts the money down at the same time as he reaches for a bottle of red wine that’s sitting on the countertop. “You seem tense,” he comments, holding the bottle up. “You wanna have a drink before we get started?”

“No, thanks,” Bucky declines politely. “I don’t really drink. And it’s Bucky.”

“Alright, if you say so,” Steve says amicabilly as he puts the bottle down again. “I'll admit, it’s got a nice ring to it. Please,” he says with a gesture to the couch. “Have a seat. Watching you stand around like that makes me nervous.”

Quickly, Bucky does as he’s told. Rogers joins him, sitting across from him like he had the last time. 

“So,” he says with a curious look Bucky’s way. “Have you thought about what you’d like to do first? Any special fantasies you’d like me to help you fulfil?”

Bucky shakes his head. It is true that he had tried to research different options to prepare for such a question, but most of them had appeared crude, and… confusing. The information had done nothing but leave him feeling even more clueless than he’d been from the start. He has no idea what he wants, and Rogers appears to understand as much. He looks at Bucky from underneath his lashes, and smiles.

“You know, kissing is usually a good place to start,” he suggests. “It what people tend to do first, anyway, before moving on to more advanced things.” He leans forward slightly. “Have you kissed anyone before, Bucky?”

Bucky opens his mouth to answer, but before he gets the chance, Rogers closes his eyes and waves the question away with a low groan. “Sorry,” he apologises. “I forgot about the… Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.” 

Bucky nods. “It’s okay,” he says hoarsely. “I… I don’t usually think about it. What I’ve forgotten.”

“Well, I’ve heard people say you shouldn’t dwell on the past,” Rogers murmurs. He scoots closer, sliding over the cushions until he’s sitting in the seat next to Bucky’s. “That the present is much more important than things that used to be. You think that makes sense?”

The low gravel of his voice has the skin of Bucky’s neck tingling, and before he can stop himself, his gaze drops to the curve of the other man’s mouth. He nods. Rogers smiles.

“Good,” he says. Bucky tenses as Rogers leans in even closer, his breath warm on Bucky’s lips as he adds, “Then let’s make the most of the now, shall we?”

Bucky manages to swallow, and then Rogers closes the distance between them. His lips are soft ( _ so, so soft) _ and Bucky has no clue what he's supposed to be doing as he tries to mimic the movement of Rogers’ lips. It doesn't last for very long, and Bucky feels as if whatever a kiss was supposed to have felt like,  _ that _ hadn't been it. Dread coils in his stomach, hard and painful as the word  _ failure  _ flashes through his head. He knows the punishment for that, and his fear, as well as his sense of ineptness, only grows when he catches the slight frown on Rogers face when the other pulls back.

He feels the muscles of his shoulders tense as his body involuntarily braces itself for some sort of repercussion; a strike, a shock, whatever they used to give him as punishment for his deficiency He's perfectly aware that Rogers will do no such thing to him, if anything at all, but that doesn't stop his body from reacting all the same. He can't stop it anymore than he can stop the sun from moving in the sky, and that's the most terrifying thing about it. Being without control. 

“Sorry,” Bucky murmurs, looking down. He expects Rogers to laugh, or make some sort of joke about his inexperience. Maybe even move away. Instead, all he gets is the gentle touch of Rogers’ fingertips against his jaw, and still, he flinches. 

“Don't be sorry,” Rogers whispers. “Everyone's a beginner at some point. You just need practice.” Tenderly, he tips Bucky’s head up to face him as he gestures to his own mouth. “Here, try doing this,” he says, before licking around his lips in a quick swipe of his tongue. Then, he sucks the lips in between his teeth to rid them off the slick sheen left behind. “See? Not too wet, not too dry. Makes it nicer.”

Bucky mimics the instruction, and Rogers gives him an approving nod. “That’s right,” he praises. “You’ve got a nice set of lips, you know. All rosy pink.” Slowly, he lets his thumb ghost over the light swell of Bucky’s bottom lip. When Bucky pulls in a stuttering breath in response, Rogers smiles again. “Yeah…” he breathes. “I could keep myself busy with these.”

He meets Bucky’s gaze and adjusts his weight on the couch to sit up taller. As he does, he also lets go of Bucky’s jaw. The moment the touch leaves his skin, Bucky finds that he misses it.

“Alright,” Rogers says as his voice goes from whisper soft to gentle explanation, “so here’s how it works. There are, fundamentally, two kinds of kisses; the chaste ones, and the sexy ones. Both have subcategories, but they all operate on the same base principles. Are you with me so far?”

Bucky nods, and Rogers continues, “Now, for the two of us, the chaste ones are quick, closed-mouthed, and might even get your pulse up into a light jog if you’re desperate enough. In short, they’re sweet, but boring as hell if it’s fun you’re looking for. Sorta like the one we just had. The sexy ones, however…” 

Again, Rogers shifts, and Bucky has to fight the impulse he has to push back against the armrest of the couch to keep the distance between them. He’s not scared, but there’s something about the way Rogers is looking at him that has him feeling at a considerable disadvantage. It is a very new, unfamiliar position to find himself in.  

“The sexy ones,” Rogers repeats with his gaze once again dropping to momentarily rest on Bucky’s mouth before going back to his eyes, “are anything but boring. Now, I’m gonna put my lips on yours, and I’m going to kiss you.  _ Properly. _ As I do, the only thing you have to think about is to keep your mouth loose, your jaw slack, and your breathing going. Other than that, feel free to join in whenever you’re ready, no rush. Slow and steady is the key to winning this race, alright?”

He leans in to cup Bucky’s jaw again, and Bucky hates the twitch that goes through him at the touch. The Asset wouldn’t have moved a muscle. But Bucky does.

“Relax,” Rogers whispers, his voice once again velvety soft. “I’m not gonna hurt you…” He cants his head to the side with an assuring smile as he sits back on his heels, and Bucky lets out a quiet sigh at the regained space. 

“Listen,” Rogers says solemnly, “I’ve been in this business for a while, alright? And once you’ve been doing this for long enough, you start to pick up on things. I’m not gonna say that you know more about this than you’re telling me, because I know the body remembers more than our heads do, but I can tell that you’ve been through stuff. Stuff that makes this,” he gestures between them, “difficult for you. Whether you remember it or not isn’t important. What’s  _ important  _ right now is that you keep an open dialogue with me. Do you understand?”

He looks at him, and Bucky wishes that he could say yes, but he can’t. He shakes his head, because he doesn’t understand at all. An open dialogue? About what?

“I need you to tell me when to  _ stop, _ ” Rogers says firmly. “Alright? Whenever things become too much, I need you to tell me, so that I can back up and let you adjust. This isn’t about pride, or to measure your competence in any way. It’s about safety. Yours  _ and  _ mine, which means that we need to trust each other. I need to trust you to say when, and you need to trust that when you do, I will listen. Okay?”

_ Trust. _

Bucky lets the word sink in, taking in what Rogers just said. He seriously wants Bucky to  _ trust _ him? This complete stranger that he’s literally just met? 

“I’m not sure I can do that,” he confesses. 

“Really?” Rogers asks. “Because I think you can.” With a gentle slide, he lets his fingers brush against Bucky's knee. “Just pick a word. Any word that makes you feel safe, and when you say it, I’ll know to stop. Make it something special. Something you’ll remember.”

It’s a question that’s just as impossible as it is simple. A word. That’s it, just a word. A  _ safe  _ word. And yet, as Bucky closes his eyes, it is not a word that comes floating up from within him. It’s a name.

“Becca,” he says.

“Becca?” Rogers repeats. He sounds surprised, but Bucky doesn’t care. He knows it’s right.

“Yes,” he says. “It’s short for Rebecca. Although, I— I don’t know who that is.”

At that, the skeptical look on Roger’s face falters as it’s replaced by a flash of sympathy that Bucky wishes would stay and go away equally as much.

“That’s okay,” Rogers says. “It’s a good word. Name.” He laughs, shaking his head. “God knows it’ll kill the mood pretty damn quick if you say a woman’s name in the middle of things, but hey, that’s sort of the point, ain’t it?” He looks at Bucky, and his gaze is soft, gentle, just like the touch that still lingers on Bucky’s knee. “So, will you trust me? If I promise I’ll trust you back?”

“Yes.” Bucky feels the word as it leaves his mouth, and yet he can’t believe that he’s actually the one who said it. However, as Rogers’ face lights up with that bright, genuine smile of his in response, the doubt vaporizes. As Steve lifts his hand from Bucky's leg to touch his right shoulder, Bucky doesn’t move.

“Lick your lips again,” Rogers orders, humming behind closed lips as Bucky does. “Yeah, that’s perfect. See, you’re doing great so far.” He grins, wide and pleasant, and as he leans in, Bucky feels Rogers’ lips brush against his own mouth as Rogers whispers, “One more time, then. Just keep breathing.”

This time, the kiss is different. Oh, it is  _ very _ different.

Steve’s lips are still soft and plump where they press against Bucky’s, and as he begins to move them in a slow, lazy slide, something hot and burning coils its way into the pit of Bucky’s stomach. The gasp he makes reminds him of what he got told about breathing, and as he drags in air through his nose, Rogers presses in further. 

“You okay?” Rogers breathes without even breaking the kiss, and Bucky finds he can’t do anything but nod. Quickly, as if not to waste any more time, Rogers deepens the kiss even further, this time tightening his fingers around the curve of Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky lets him, happily so. After a few more seconds, he even makes an attempt to reciprocate. 

As Bucky pushes back, Rogers drags in a sharp breath, and then he  _ moans. _ Quiet, breathless. The noise rattles down Bucky’s spine in a violent tremor, just before Rogers slides his tongue against the seam of their lips. Without thinking, Bucky opens up for him, and this time it is his own moan that sends heat seeping through his limbs. 

It’s both amazing and terrifying, how such simple things as a mouth and tongue can have such devastating effect. It sneaks up on him. At first, it’s nothing but that slow, pulsating glow, but it doesn’t take long before it starts to spread. It fans out through his limbs, up his spine, the nape of his neck, down his arms to the very tips of his fingers. It makes him restless. Rogers continues to kiss him, but it’s not enough, not anymore. 

Bucky’s breath shivers as he reaches up and—without thinking—cups Rogers’ face with his right hand. The faint stubble there chafes his palm as Rogers angles his head to the side, and Bucky can hear the sigh that leaves his lungs when Bucky lets his fingers travel back to curve around the back of the smaller man’s neck. So slender and frail beneath his grip. So trusting. 

The thought is intoxicating. Just like the kisses, the faith being placed on him is enough to steal Bucky’s breath away. He echoes the groan that escapes Rogers’ throat as he lets his hand wander up and into the blond strands of the other’s hair. 

“Shit…” Rogers breathes dazedly. “You learn fast, don’t ya?” He doesn’t wait for Bucky to answer. He simply continues to kiss him, slow and lazy, along with a plethora of peculiar noises that Bucky can’t recall ever having heard, but would gladly give years of his life to hear more of.

The touch of Rogers’ fingers burn as they slide against the nape of his neck, yet the goosebumps they leave in their wake has Bucky trembling like cold.  

Kissing.

If Bucky’s ever done this before, the methods HYDRA used on his memory must surely have been impressive to make him forget about it. For as long as he lives, he  _ never  _ wants to forget about this. 

Rogers is a good teacher; he goes slow, and he never moves forward unless Bucky does so first. He teaches him in silence, without words. How the slip of a tongue can make a breath stutter, or how the teasing nip of teeth against flesh can make the fingers of a hand twitch. He teaches him how to put his entire body into it as he presses himself against Bucky’s front, chest to chest. Bucky feels the warmth of Rogers’ skin seep through the layers of their clothes, and he pulls him in closer, craving more of it. 

Steve moans, louder this time, and Bucky feels the hand on his right shoulder slip from the sudden tug at the same time as Rogers puts his other hand on Bucky’s metal arm to brace himself. 

It’s not on purpose, and the touch doesn’t hurt at all. It merely startles him, and Bucky reels back before he can control himself. It’s a reflex; an impulse he’s always felt at the touch to that part of him, but has never been allowed to follow. With the barrier of obedience gone, he instead finds himself unable to stop it. Rogers notices.

“Sorry,” he says, lifting his hand off of him as quickly as he had put it there. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“It’s okay,” Bucky answers. “Just… I’m not used to having people touch it. Not like that.”

“Like what?” Rogers asks, confused. Then he frowns as he slowly leans back to look at Bucky with a concerned expression. Bucky can see the realization as it lights up his face, horrified and appalled. “Last time you were here,” Rogers says slowly, carefully, “you said the arm was given to you without your consent…”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” Bucky doesn’t mean to be so short, not after all the kindness Rogers has shown him so far, but he can’t help it. He looks the other man in the eye, meeting the blue of his gaze in an attempt to convey what he means without having to say it. It appears to work. 

“It’s alright,” Rogers says after a second. “I get it, you don’t have to tell me. I promise I’ll do my best not to touch it again.” He leans in and kisses Bucky’s lips. It’s a chaste kiss this time, just like he’d described in the beginning. It’s reassuring, though, and when Rogers pulls back, Bucky finds that the initial tremble of the panic he’d been feeling moments ago has subsided.

Rogers’ lips quirk up in a flash of a smile, just before his gaze nonchalantly drops to Bucky’s lap. “Well,” he says smugly, “glad to see you enjoyed yourself a little bit, at least.”

Bucky doesn’t have to look down to know what he's referring to. Although, he must admit, up until Rogers mentioned it, Bucky had been too busy with everything else to notice the hard-on pressing against the insides of his pants. 

He knows that getting an erection is sort of the point behind this whole situation. Nonetheless, the way Rogers looks at him—with that pleased gleam in his eyes—has him feeling exposed in a way he hadn’t expected. Especially as Rogers puts an open palm to Bucky’s chest, and pushes him against the backrest of the couch. 

“Lean back,” he urges. “I’mma show you something else.”

Bucky does as he’s told. He’s barely gotten his shoulders settled against the couch before Rogers swings a leg over his lap and straddles him in in a single, fluent movement. He gazes down at Bucky—or at least as much down as his short stature will allow, even from his elevated position on top of Bucky’s thighs. 

“Kiss me,” Rogers says as he leans in to brace himself on the top of the couch on either side of Bucky’s head. “I wanna see how fast of a learner you really are.”

Bucky arches his eyebrows, half in surprise and half in doubt, because if he’s not mistaken, he just heard a  _ challenge  _ in that sentence. And sure enough, when he looks at Rogers again, Rogers _ smirks _ at him. 

Swallowing once, Bucky just about remembers the lesson of licking his lips before he pulls Rogers in by the back of the head, and mashes their mouths together. He goes faster this time, wanting to show Rogers that he’s not afraid of pushing things further. This time,  _ he’s  _ the one who slips his tongue into the other man’s mouth first, and Rogers groans out loud in blatant approval of the initiative. 

In fact, Rogers seems pleased with just about anything Bucky does at this point. When Bucky uses the grip on the back of his head to keep him still as he deepens the kiss, Rogers slips his hand from the couch to latch it onto the top of Bucky’s right shoulder. His fingers press around the muscle there, and as Bucky tentatively slips his metal hand around the small of Rogers’ back, Rogers gasps and gives a full-body shudder while curling the fingers of his other hand into the front of Bucky’s red henley.

It feels strange, to have  _ that  _ hand touch another person like that. In a cradle instead of a grip. Squeezing instead of crushing. It’s as dangerous as it is addicting, and Bucky dares a slow drag of metal up the middle of Rogers spine, just to see what the touch will feel like. 

The reaction out of Rogers is intense enough to make Bucky gasp. Rogers arches his back in a long curve to press his chest flush against Bucky’s chest with a mewl that provokes a responding growl out of Bucky’s throat. Then, Bucky’s growl morphs into a startled grunt as Steve rolls his hips down over Bucky’s lap, rocking against the hardness of his crotch without a speck of shame or modesty. It’s a movement that’s downright filthy, and Bucky feels his upper lip pull up in a snarl as he tightens the grip on Rogers’ hip and yanks him down to make him repeat it.

Rogers does, happily, eagerly. He uses the hand on Bucky’s shoulder as leverage to shove himself back and forth, circling his hips lewdly while he keeps breathing moans and broken gasps into Bucky’s mouth. Bucky groans when the hand curled into the fabric covering his chest momentarily lets him go, only to startle himself by whining low in his throat as it returns to card through his hair a mere second later. 

The touch makes him shiver. It’s a quake that starts deep inside his chest, right next to his heart, only to spread until his can feel the hydraulics in his arm spasm in a futile attempt to match it. The press of Rogers’ body over his cock is electric, and as Bucky starts thrusting up to meet the rolls of the other man’s weight, the sensation is staggering. 

Touch. 

Finally, he has it. The heat of another person, moving in time with his body, breathing life into his lungs. Even like this, with their clothes on, it’s still better than any touch he could have hoped to give himself with his own hand. 

Rogers is alive above him, with eyes closed and long lashes fanning over the edge of his cheekbones. His fingers twitch against Bucky’s scalp as his breath stutters, hard, once, twice. Then, he suddenly pulls away from Bucky’s mouth to latch his lips over the side of Bucky’s neck instead. The noise that pushes itself out of Bucky’s throat in return is downright  _ obscene _ , but he can’t stop it. He feels Rogers’ tongue lick over his skin, lips mouthing across his pulse point in a flutter of a breath. A ghost’s caress that has Bucky tipping his head against the backrest of the couch in his eagerness to give it further access to his throat.       

“Did you make up your mind yet?” Rogers whispers into his ear. 

Bucky shakes his head, groaning again at the touch of teeth against the flesh of his earlobe.

“Mind if I choose?” Rogers asks.

Bucky shakes his head again. He hears Rogers let out a huff of a laugh against his ear, and then the touch of his mouth slowly begins to wander downwards. Bucky looks on as Rogers gracefully slides off his lap and onto the floor between his knees. Once there, Rogers spreads Bucky’s legs by putting guiding pressure on the inside of each thigh with his palms, and Bucky’s eyes widen as he realizes what he plans to do.

“Rogers…” 

“It’s Steve.” 

Bucky shuts his mouth as the other man cuts him off, and Ro—  _ Steve _ gives Bucky a cheeky tilt of his head as reaches for the top button of his fly. 

“I’m gonna have your dick in my mouth in a few seconds, you know,” he says. “I’d rather have you call me by my first name when I make you come.”

Bucky’s heart gives a hard thud at that, and as his eyes drop to Steve’s lips, it does it again.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes. He pops the second button. “You like that idea, don’t you? Don’t worry.” He undoes the third button. “Since this is your first time, I promise I’ll go slow. ”

Bucky doesn’t know what that means. Slow, fast, it doesn’t matter, because he can feel Steve’s palm rub against him through his jeans, and that’s the only thing he’s capable of focusing on right now. His breath catches in the back of his throat with each button that comes undone, until his fly is splayed open and the bulge of his underwear is pushing out through the opening.

Steve pulls the jeans down to hang low on Bucky’s hips. As he gives them a pointed tug, Bucky lifts himself up to allow Steve to pull them down the final inch from under his ass. He’s tenting in his underwear, and as Steve reaches out to run a finger up the length, over the head through the fabric, Bucky has to fist his hands in the couch cushions not to gasp out loud.

Steve shoots him a look, but when Bucky doesn’t say anything, he goes back to what he was doing. He strokes his finger, up, down. Again, and again, and Bucky watches it with his teeth clenched tight behind his lips. He doesn’t know why, but suddenly he feels reluctant to make any noise. Not like this, with Steve’s gaze drilling holes into his mind every time their eyes meet. It’s like he’s being challenged for a second time. To stay in control, and not give in. To make it last.

However, no matter how he tries, he can’t stop his cock from twitching every time the tip of Steve’s index finger runs over the head. It jerks and strains as it chases after the disappearing touch, something that seems to amuse Steve a lot since he keeps pulling his hand away to watch Bucky pulse through the fabric of his shorts.

When he finally presses his full palm down over Bucky’s crotch, Bucky’s resolve falters. A groan escapes his lips as his eyes slide shut, and he feels his chest heave as his body drags air into his lungs to do it again, only louder, when Steve wraps those slender fingers around the length of him. 

“You ready to take these off?” he hears Steve asks. Bucky peeks his eyes open to look down at where Steve’s kneeling between his feet. Then he silently cants his hips for Steve to pull off his shorts, watching the grin that curls over Steve’s lips as he obliges him. 

Steve gently guides the elastic of Bucky’s waistband down. In return, Bucky’s cock bobs up once the garment comes off all the way. Steve tilts his head to the side, looking him over, and Bucky swallows hard as Steve swipes his tongue across his bottom lip. 

“Man,” Steve murmurs. “You sure don’t disappoint, do you?”

Bucky doesn’t know how to answer a question like that. So he says nothing, apprehensively looking on as Steve grabs around him like he had before. Only this time there’s no protective barrier of fabric between them, and the raw touch of skin on skin makes Bucky freeze up. It only lasts for a moment, because then Steve leans in and licks a long line from the base of Bucky’s cock, all the way up to the tip in a single go. 

The sudden action has Bucky biting back a surprised grunt, but any further attempts at staying quiet are promptly ruined as Steve takes his cock into his mouth. Bucky chokes as he watches Steve suck him down, staring at the glistening trail of saliva his mouth leaves over his skin right before Steve pulls off with a wet smack. 

“You’ve got a nice cock,” Steve comments with a shallow lick to the head that makes the muscles in Bucky’s stomach jerk. “It fits so perfectly in my mouth. So tight and snug.” Steve looks at him as he slowly strokes his hand up and down Bucky’s now-wet shaft. His smile is warm as he puts his other hand on Bucky’s abdomen to give him a little push. 

“Don’t be so tense, sweetheart,” he urges. “Lean back. Relax. I’ve got this.”

He flashes another smile at him before bending his head down once again. Bucky holds his breath until he feels the slick touch of lips against his skin, and then he tips his head back with a shuddering sigh, allowing his eyes to slide shut. 

The warmth of Steve’s mouth envelopes him, wet and slippery. The steady ups and downs spread tingles through his entire body, making his breathing unsteady. He moans when Steve flicks his tongue over his frenulum, and then again as Steve flattens the muscle against the head of his cock, looping it up and around the velvet skin in a slick drag. 

It doesn’t take long before Bucky loses himself in it. With every new touch, the muscles of his body tense, only to relax a little further. He moans under his breath as his back arches off the couch while his hips attempt a shallow roll to make Steve take him all the way in one go again. Like he had that first time. 

He hears Steve moan too. His voice is muffled by the flesh in his mouth, but Bucky finds that he likes the sound of it that way. The vibrations of it ripple down his shaft with the same intensity as the sound sparks through his mind, and he holds his breath as he yearns to hear it again. 

The noise he gets from Steve next, however, is not a moan, but a whine. A low, throaty whimper that has Bucky flashing his eyes open to look down at Steve with a worried crease to his brow. 

“What are you—?”

The question dies on the tip of his tongue before he can even finish it. He stares down at the man kneeling before him, and the sight that meets him punches a moan out of his lungs so hard it nearly hurts. 

Steve’s got his left hand grasped around himself through the front of his sweatpants, and Bucky can clearly see the outline of his cock beneath the fabric as Steve rubs his palm over it in a steady rhythm to get himself off. While Bucky looks on, Steve lifts his gaze to meet with his, moaning again, louder, before pulling off of him. 

“Jesus, Buck,” he pants, mouthing the words against the side of Bucky’s shaft. “Gonna end up coming just from sucking your dick.” He gasps as he begins to rub himself faster, humping his own hand while using the other to jerk Bucky off. 

His grip is firm, the pace steady, and Bucky tips his head back with a breathy, “Fuck…” towards the ceiling. 

“No,” Steve gasps, “look at me. Look at me, sweetheart, keep your eyes open.”

Bucky moves his head in a barely-there shake as he lets out a keening noise, but he can’t say no. Not when Steve sounds like that. He looks, eyes only half open, and Steve unabashedly meets his gaze; slack jawed, gaze hooded, his hands moving hard and fast over them both. 

“Don’t you think I’m pretty?” Steve asks, panting between his words. “Don’t you like looking at me while I suck you off?”

Bucky feels like he’s floating, like he’s weightless, even as he can’t bring himself to move an inch. “I do…” he breathes.

“You’re pretty, too…” Steve moans. Momentarily, he breaks eye contact to lean his head against Bucky’s thigh, but he finds it again, just as quick. He looks Bucky in the eye as a violent tremor wracks the slender frame of his body. “I could look at that pretty face of yours all day…”

He lifts his head and sucks at the tip of Bucky’s cock, before taking him into his mouth again. He works him over with muffled, suckling noises, gasping for air like he can’t swallow Bucky down quick enough. It’s a greedy display, filled with a hunger that Bucky can only imagine is the same as the one he’s feeling at that moment. 

Steve’s lips are slick, shining wet. Bucky wants to touch them so bad he aches with the need of it, but all he manages is a fumbling reach for the top of his head. His flesh fingers find and grasp around the blond curls of Steve’s hair while the metal one fists the couch seat by his hip in a futile attempt to stay in control as Steve goes even deeper. Deep enough to have his nose touch the dark curls of hair at the base of Bucky’s cock. 

Bucky groans. His fingers twitch against Steve’s scalp, and in return, Steve moans and fervently pushes his head into Bucky’s palm. He only does so for a split second, however, before pulling off of Bucky’s cock completely to drop his brow against Bucky’s knee with another whine as his body jerks, hard.

“Gonna make me come…” he whispers.

The words sear their way into Bucky’s gut, a branding iron against his nerve endings, and he nods, moaning out loud. His cock twitches, and Steve takes it into his mouth again, moaning and bobbing his head while Bucky tightens his grip on Steve’s hair, trying to keep up and hold on at the same time.

Steve moans, and shudders, and then he goes still with a throaty groan that’s muffled by Bucky’s cock. He comes in his pants, thrusting into his own palm in steady rolls of his hips while the garment goes dark where his cock presses against the fabric. Bucky watches, slack jawed as the sight sends wildfire racing up his spine. It hits his brain with a force that whites out his vision, and he comes, curling down over himself before slamming back against the couch with a mute cry, gasping for air. 

It goes on for ages—much longer than when he’s done it by himself in the past—and Steve continues to suck him through the whole thing, until it becomes so overwhelming Bucky has to pull him away by the hair. 

Steve’s eyes are bright when he looks up at him from the floor. Bucky finds that even though he wants to come up with something to say, he can’t. He’s still trying to put a sentence together in his head when Steve pushes himself up to crawl onto Bucky’s lap, and—still gasping for air—mashes their lips together with a groan. 

Bucky grabs around the slender curve of Steve’s shoulders with a surprised noise as his brain registers the bitter tang on Steve’s tongue as his own. It’s dark, bitter, and Bucky yanks Steve away to stare at him, agape.  

“Sorry,” Steve pants. “I should have asked first if could do that. I just— I got so carried away, I didn’t mean—”

Bucky decides that he’s not interested in explanations. They don’t matter. He shuts Steve up by kissing him again; longer, slower, and after a second of initial shock, Steve moans into his mouth as he wraps both his arms around Bucky’s neck. They kiss for maybe half a minute before Steve suddenly pulls back to give Bucky a suspicious squint. 

“You drink a lot of coffee, don’t you?”

Bucky frowns, “How can you tell?” he asks warily.

“The way you taste,” Steve replies simply. “For future reference, you might wanna consider cutting back, or at least take it with some sugar on the days you plan to come here. You know, if you want me to feel more enthusiastic about letting you come in my mouth again.”

Bucky chokes, feeling heat rise on his cheeks as he starts to burn—to think that now, after everything they’ve already done,  _ that  _ comment is what makes him blush. However, it's not as much out of shyness as it is sheepishness. He should have thought about the coffee.  _ Why _ didn’t he think of the coffee? He opens his mouth to apologise, but Steve just laughs and kisses him before he can make a sound.

“For being this big, burly, mysterious guy, you’re really fucking cute, you know that?” Steve says as they pull apart for the third time, and Bucky reluctantly lets him go as Steve moves to stand on the floor. As he does, Bucky’s eyes catches on the dark spot covering the front of his crotch, on the way it’s spread in a moist streak down Steve’s left thigh. 

“Yeah, I hope you’re proud of yourself,” Steve says, stepping back and around the coffee table with a smirk. “I don’t normally get off on my customers unless they’re the ones offering to make it so. With you… What can I say, I just couldn’t help it.”

Bucky watches Steve turn and disappear into the next room with a playful wink over his shoulder, leaving him alone on the couch. Bucky’s jeans and shorts are still halfway down his thighs, and he quickly pulls them up as he tucks himself back into his underwear. Just as he’s finished buttoning up his fly, Steve returns; this time dressed in a new pair of sweatpants.

“You feelin’ good?” he asks, and doesn’t ask, all at the same time. “Did I hold up my end of the bargain?”

Bucky nods. “Definitely,” he answers, finding that he has to clear his throat to rid himself of the unexpected croak in his voice as he stands up. 

“Good,” Steve says, beaming as he walks up to the kitchen counter and picks up his phone. “So, do you want another appointment right off the bat? Or do you wanna go home and think it over?”

“No,” Bucky replies quickly. “I… I want to do this again.” 

Steve grins at him. “You know what,” he says, “me too. In fact, I even think I’m gonna throw in a little a discount on your deal just to make sure you come back. I know I said I don’t do quantity discounts,” he adds, “but you know… since you’re cute and all.” 

Bucky blinks, and ducks his head with an embarrassed snort when Steve winks at him again. It’s not quite a chuckle, but it still feels like a foreign sound as it leaves his mouth. He can’t remember having laughed, or even genuinely smiled before. The thought that he might actually be able to still is both exciting and strange.

Steve suggests a new appointment for that same weekend, and Bucky takes it. Steve tells him they’ve only just gotten started on exploring the pleasurable things two people can do together; the tip of the famous iceberg, as he calls it. Bucky can’t say he’s discouraged to find out more about that, and soon.

Then Steve gives him a final kiss goodbye, and before Bucky knows it, he’s walking down the steps of the stairs outside as the sound of Steve locking the front door behind him echoes in his ears.

Did all of that really just happen? 

Taking the first steps down the sidewalk, it feels like he’s waking up from a dream. Or a hallucination. 

Did it  _ really  _ happen?

He thinks about it all the way home as he tries to store the memories away for later. Making sure he  _ remembers. _ He’s surprised to find that out of all that had happened, it’s the sound and look of Steve’s orgasm that stands out the clearest. He replays it inside his mind, over and over, until it’s etched into the walls of his memory, and as he rounds the corner to his own neighborhood less than fifteen minutes later, he realizes that he’s already begun to get hard again. 

Apparently, healing broken bones and cuts isn’t the only thing the serum helps his body recover from quicker these days.

  
  



	5. 5

 The weekend comes sooner than Bucky expects it to. He feels like he’s barely had time to process what had happened during his and Steve’s last encounter before he’s back, ringing the bell at Steve’s front door.

Steve opens it, smiling. Just like last time. It gives Bucky a strange sense of deja vû, but only for a moment. Steve’s dressed in a navy blue long sleeved t-shirt and jeans today. It brings out the color of his eyes in a way that’s absolutely striking, and frankly, also quite distracting.

Bucky waits for Steve’s invitation before he goes inside. He bends down and starts unlacing his boots without waiting for Steve to tell him to do so, and he catches a glimpse of the pleased tug at Steve’s lip just before Steve turns around to lock the door.

“So, whatcha wanna do today?” Bucky hears him ask. “Any ideas?”

“Not really,” Bucky replies reluctantly. “I don’t think I’m experienced enough to have opinions, yet.”

“Of course you’re allowed opinions, what’re you talking about?” Steve gives him an appalled look. “In case you didn’t know, your opinion is sort of the whole point, here.”

Bucky clears his throat as he stands up to put his boots in the shoe rack. He knows that Steve is just trying to state a normal social fact, but that doesn’t stop the guilt from slicing into him anyway.

His opinion.      

To think that after all the things he’s done, someone still considers him worthy of having one of those. Then again, Steve doesn’t know anything about him, so it’s not strange that he’d say something like that…

He hears Steve come up to stand behind him, and he closes his eyes when he feels the warmth of a hand layer itself over his left hip.

“C’mon,” Steve coaxes. “Give me something to work with here. Surely there’s something you’ve been thinking about since last time?”

Oh, there is. Bucky’s been unable to get it out of his head. Steve’s face, eyes dazed, his mouth open in ecstasy as his climax seeps through the darkening fabric of his pants… But Bucky also knows that it’s not what Steve’s asking him about. And Bucky’s not sure he’d tell him about it, even if it were.

“Actually,” he says instead, “I’ve been thinking about… clothes.  You know… How we didn’t really take any off.”

“Yeah, we got too busy for that,” Steve says. He sounds pleased with himself, and Bucky tries not to let his breathing give him away when Steve sneaks his other hand around  Bucky's waist to mirror the one on the left. Steve kneads at his skin, causing Bucky to sway back against his chest, even if just slightly, as Steve adds, “But there’s plenty of time today. I’ve got an opening, in case you wanna make this session longer? Provided you’ve got the money, of course.”

“Back pocket,” Bucky murmurs. He feels Steve smooth his fingers along the waist of his jeans, around to his back, before dipping into the pocket to fish out the bundle of cash stored there. The hand that's still resting on his hip gives him a final squeeze before letting go. Bucky shivers in spite of himself as he feels it move to grab around his right hand instead.

“Come with me,” Steve says, and Bucky follows, compliantly tugged along by Steve’s firm grip.

Steve leads him into the bedroom. Bucky knows from simple deduction of the apartment layout that that’s what it is, even before he spots the bed that’s taking up almost half of the space inside. Compared to Steve’s small frame, it’s enormous, and Bucky finds himself involuntarily thinking about how Steve sleeps in that thing _alone_ at night. Then he realizes that he doesn’t actually know whether that’s true or not. And even if it is, it’s none of his business. He’s _Steve’s_ business, not the other way around.

Bucky still has his jacket on, but as Steve stops, he turns towards Bucky and gently pulls the garment off his shoulders and down the length of his arms.

“You’re overdressed,” Steve murmurs as he lets the jacket drop to the floor with a thump and a rustle of leather. “And I’ve been dying to see what you’re hiding underneath all those layers of yours.”

He reaches for the sleeves of Bucky’s hoodie. Then he appears to catch himself, and lets his hands drop. “You know what, you should do it,” he says. He meets Bucky’s eye, “I mean, I know you don’t want me to touch the arm, and I’d hate to make you uncomfortable.” Backing up, Steve slowly sits himself down on the edge of the bed and leans back to brace himself on his arms. “I can close my eyes if you want to,” he offers, “but I’m not gonna lie. I’d love for you to let me watch.”

At first, Bucky thinks it sounds like an odd request. Then he remembers how he’d felt watching Steve the last time he was here, and decides that Steve might have a point. Bucky’s been naked in front of others before—given, during different circumstances—but there’s something about the thought of getting undressed while Steve just…sits there, that has his nerves in a twist. But…if watching him do it is something Steve will enjoy, then who is Bucky to deny him such a simple pleasure?

He reaches down and grabs for the hem of his black hoodie. Steve follows the movement with his eyes, and as Bucky starts to pull it up to reveal the sliver of skin by his waist, Steve angles his head slightly to the side while gnawing at his bottom lip.

Bucky’s undershirt comes off along with the hoodie, which is just as good. Efficient. He shakes the hair out of his eyes and bundles the two garments up into a crumpled roll, before letting them drop to the floor on top of his jacket. Then he straightens up and looks towards the bed.

He sees Steve’s gaze momentarily catch on the seam where metal meets flesh on his left shoulder. It’s just a minor glance, barely fleeting. There’s nothing in his eyes that suggests that Steve finds it off putting—even less so when he slowly lets them trace along the rest of Bucky’s body.

Steve sweeps his gaze across Bucky’s clavicle to his right arm. It lingers on his bicep, wanders down his elbow, to his forearm, to his hands, before skimming back up to his chest. From there, it trails downs his abs until it comes to a brief rest at the jut of his hip bone. Bucky both hears and sees Steve drag in a lewd breath through his nose, right before he lets his gaze drop to the front of Bucky’s jeans. Bucky takes the hint.

He undoes his fly. In a deliberate move, he makes sure to linger on each button, just like Steve had done to him last time. At the pop of the third button, Steve pushes himself further onto the bed with a low groan. He doesn’t look away, and two buttons later, Bucky lets the jeans drop.

There’s no elegant way to step out of a pair of jeans, or take off a pair of socks, but Bucky tries as best he can. In a minute, he’s left only in his white boxer briefs, with Steve’s gaze dragging over his exposed body all the way from the ankles up.

It’s new.

In the past, he’d always been regarded with indifference. The gazes aimed the Asset’s way had been technical, uncaring, sometimes condescending. The way Steve is looking at him now is leagues apart from that. His eyes are sharp and attentive, and as his gaze halts at the front of Bucky’s chest one more time, Bucky feels an unfamiliar wish to look away. Even though he doesn’t.

“How the hell did you pack all of that into a fucking leather jacket and a pair of Levis?” Steve asks under his breath. Bucky looks down at himself with a confused frown, but before he can say anything, Steve speaks again. “You know what,” he says, waving for him to come closer, “I actually don’t care. Just get that sexy ass of yours over here.”

Bucky obediently steps up to the edge of the bed, and tries not to stare as Steve splays his legs open while looking him over once more. Bucky watches as Steves runs a hand up his own front to squeeze at his slim chest, blue shirt bunching between the gap of his fingers.

“Do you wanna take my clothes off?” Steve murmurs as he moves to drape the hand over his crotch. “Or do you wanna watch me do it?” He’s already begun to slide his fingers underneath the hem of his shirt to grab for his fly, but before he can get any further, Bucky reaches out and stops him with a grip around the wrist. However, when he tugs for Steve to move the hand out of the way, Steve doesn’t let him.

“Say it,” Steve whispers. He looks Bucky in the eye as he leans forward, tipping his face up to brush his lips against the line of Bucky’s chin. “Tell me what you wanna do.”

“I want to undress you.” There’s no point in trying to hide it. As he replies, Steve smiles at him, and lets Bucky pull his hand away as he settles back on his elbows with an expectant look.

“So,” he says. “What do you wanna start with?”

Oh, as if Bucky doesn’t know.

Putting one knee on the bed, he surges forward and presses Steve down onto the covers. Steve gives a startled gasp as his back hits the mattress, but it changes into a pleased moan when Bucky smothers his lips with an ardent kiss a second later. Steve’s arms loop around Bucky’s neck, and Bucky has to brace himself against the bed with his metal hand to not fall forward. Steve might be scrawny, but he’s apparently stronger than he looks. Or just very enthusiastic. Whichever it is, Bucky doesn’t really care.

He crowds Steve against the bed, looming over him as they continue to kiss. God, he’s missed Steve’s mouth, right along with the breathy noises he makes as Bucky nips at his lip with his teeth. He’s been thinking about those noises for days, and yet, it’s not until now, when he gets to hear them again, that he realizes just how much.

Steve kisses him hard, like he’s starving for it, and Bucky tries his best to keep up. He’s new to this still, but he finds the rhythm quick enough. Steve is a good teacher, and Bucky does like the kissing… But he’s got another goal in mind. Pulling away to mouth at Steve’s neck, Bucky grabs for Steve’s shirt and tugs it up. It bunches beneath Steve’s right armpit, and Bucky abandons his path of working his way down Steve’s clavicle by skipping right to his chest instead. He bites down loosely over Steve’s exposed nipple, right before flattening his tongue over the bud, and he feels himself twitch in his underwear when Steve chokes on a moan above his head.

The sound is intoxicating, and Bucky pulls away with a low growl to remove the rest of the shirt still in his way. Steve obediently lifts his arms up over his head to let him, but Bucky can’t resists the urge to dive down one more time to give the other side of  Steve's chest the same treatment as the first. Steve, who’s still halfway caught in the sleeves of his shirt, squirms beneath his mouth, and Bucky finds that he likes that. He likes that _a lot._

Pulling the shirt all the way off, Bucky continues to kiss and lick over Steve’s ribs and stomach, until he reaches the waistband of his jeans. Steve’s got a zipper instead of buttons, which makes the job easy. Bucky yanks them open and off in no time at all, leaving Steve in grey briefs, splayed out in the middle of the bed with his hard-on clearly visible through his underwear.

It’s the closest Bucky’s gotten to actually _see_ Steve’s cock, and he’s not sure what etiquette says he should do next. He wants to touch, wants to make Steve feel good enough to make that face he had last time. But Steve had told him that he doesn’t usually get off along with his customers. Only, with Bucky, he had.

_What can I say, I just couldn’t help it._

“Can I touch you?” Bucky asks. For a moment, Steve’s smile—that open, bright, genuine smile—falters. Then it returns as he gives Bucky’s chest a light push.

“I’ve got a better idea,” he says. “Lay down.”

It’s a bit of a disappointment, but Bucky does as he’s told. As soon as he’s on his back, however, Steve layers himself on top of him, and every urge to complain is instantly vaporized from Bucky’s mind as he feels Steve’s clothed cock press against his hip.

“Kiss me again,” Steve whispers, and Bucky doesn’t need to be told twice. He pours everything he has into the kiss as he presses himself against Steve’s mouth. He doesn’t want to disappoint. He wants Steve to like it.

Meanwhile, Steve keeps moving his hands over Bucky’s chest, smoothing them down to stroke over his skin in tender sweeps of his fingers. Caressing him from his hip and up his sides, back to his chest once more, eagerly licking into his mouth as he goes.

“I wanna play a game with you,” Steve pants into the corner of Bucky’s mouth.

“Game?” Bucky asks, pulling his dazed mind away from the distraction of Steve’s touch.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes while kissing at his neck. “I’ll start by touching you…and then you tell me if it feels good.” He pulls back, just enough for them to gain eye contact. “I promise, I’ll go slow. And if you feel the need to stop, all you have to do is use your safeword.”

“Just…touching?” Bucky repeats slowly.

“The best kind,” Steve murmurs back. “Harmless, arousing, delicious touch, just for you.”

Bucky swallows down a groan when Steve kisses him again. The kiss is soft, but more than enough to make him want it to last for longer when Steve pulls away, much too soon.

“So,” Steve says, “Whaddaya say? You wanna play with me?”

Bucky nods. He’s still not entirely sure how to feel about the premise of the game Steve’s suggesting, but Steve _is_ the expert… And so far he’s done nothing to make Bucky distrust him. He’s kept his promises, and this one in particular does sound more than tempting. So as Steve sits up tall to straddle Bucky across the thighs, Bucky lets him.

“Don’t worry, you’ll like it,” Steve promises. “I’ll make sure of it.” He draws a lazy circle at the centre of Bucky’s chest with his index finger. “You see, I wanna learn more about you,” he drawls as he ends the shape in a swift squiggle down Bucky’s abs, causing Bucky’s breath to hitch. “Find out what makes you tick…”

Bucky looks on as Steve splays his hand over his stomach and smoothes it up. “Like this,” Steve says. “Does it feel nice?”

“Yes,” Bucky answers, still looking at the other man’s hand as it comes to rest on the curve of his ribs.

“Good,” Steve hums. He leans down and kisses Bucky’s neck, and Bucky gasps as Steve moves to brush deft fingers over his left nipple, catching on it, one by one.

“And that?” Steve prompts.

“Yes…” Bucky swallows tightly, tipping his head into the pillow as Steve continues to kiss a winding trail down his neck, towards his clavicle. Chaste, closed lips that linger for just a moment short of satisfying, before moving on. Going slower, _lower…_  

At the first wet slide of a tongue against his nipple, Bucky jerks and clenches his teeth together. _“Yes,”_ he hisses sharply even before Steve can ask. He shudders as Steve lets out a chuckle, warm breath cooling the saliva on his skin in an onslaught of contradicting sensations.

Steve continues to tease him. He laps over his nipple with his tongue, sometimes slow, sometimes swift. His fingers dance over Bucky's body as his nails trace along his ribs, right before drawing light scratches down his sides. Bucky jerks his hips up when Steve bends his head to latch his mouth over his other nipple and suck, and he fails to hold back a groan when Steve responds by rocking his own pelvis down.

“Don’t hold back on me, Buck,” Steve berates softly. He flicks his tongue over the peaking flesh between his lips. “I won’t know if I’m doing this right if you don’t talk.”

Bucky nods, and then moans again, forcing himself to do so louder this time. His body rolls out of its own accord as he keeps chasing the weight of Steve’s body, and he bends his knees in order to push himself up even higher, eagerly seeking friction.

“Fuck,” Steve groans against his chest. “You really like that, don’t you? Hell, with the way you’re thrashing, I just might have to tie you down…”

Instantly, Bucky freezes. And so does Steve.

“Oh,” Steve breathes. “Oh, I fucked up there, didn’t I?” He pulls back, giving Bucky space as he sits up. He looks down at him, and slowly brings a hand to Bucky’s temple to brush a stray strand of hair behind his left ear. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispers apologetically. “It was just an expression. I would never do that to you.”

“It’s alright,” Bucky mumbles. “You… You didn't know.”

“It’s true I don’t know how to read minds,” Steve says. “But I do read people. I should have been able to figure it out.” Gently, he brushes the back of his finger against Bucky’s cheek, and Bucky leans into the touch with a sigh, closing his eyes.

 

 

“You wanna stop?” Steve whispers.

“No.” Bucky opens his eyes again and meets Steve’s gaze, and Steve nods.

“Alright.” He cups Bucky’s chin, and then lets his palm slide down over his chest as he scoots himself back and off Bucky’s lap, until he’s settled on the bed between his legs instead. Slowly, he strokes his hands over Bucky's hips, down his thighs, rubbing them soothingly up and down. Bucky shivers at the gentle touch, unable to make himself stop.

“Tell me what you want me to do, Buck.” Steve murmurs as he leans down and kisses the top of Bucky’s left knee. “Where do you want me to touch you?”

Immediately, Bucky gaze drops to where the outline of his erection is pressing up against the white fabric of his underwear, but Steve only shakes his head in response.

“You have to say it,” he says calmly. “I need to know for sure that’s what you want.”

“For safety?” Bucky asks hoarsely.

“For a lot of reasons,” Steve replies while squeezing at Bucky’s thighs, massaging them a bit firmer. “But yeah, safety’s one of them.”

“You didn’t make me say it last time,” Bucky points out.

“I didn’t have to,” Steve says. He smirks. “You said I could choose.”

Bucky huffs, but he can’t deny the truth of that statement. He looks away, aiming his eyes at the ceiling, knowing that Steve’s still watching him. That blue gaze is as real as the touch to his thighs as it moves over his face. It caresses him softly, and he knows what he’s expected to say – what he _wants_ to say – but yet, the words elude him.

How does one ask for something like that?

It’s not the same as when he had told Steve he wanted to undress him. That had been easy. With this, he feels like just _wanting_ it is a sign of weakness; even more so requesting it. He opens his mouth to speak up, but every sentence he puts together in his head sounds wrong. Too polite, or pathetically needy.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Steve asks worriedly. “There’s no shame in taking a breather, you know.”

“I’m sure,” Bucky replies quickly, “I just— I’m not sure I can do _that…_ ”

“Of course you can,” Steve assures him softly. “The first time’s always feels weird, is all.”

Bucky closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He’s got a lump in his throat, and an even heavier one sitting in the pit of his stomach. Both feel like they’re desperately trying to wriggle their way out of his body, through his very skin, and he finds that he has to grit his teeth to keep his lips from trembling.

“C’mon, baby,” Steve coaxes. His voice is low, but the sound of it still comes off strong and solid in Bucky’s ears. “You can do it. Whatever you want, I won’t say no, I promise. One word at a time, alright?”

Bucky nods. He forces himself to breathe, focusing on the soft touch of Steve’s hand that’s still moving up and down his left leg.

“Okay, then, repeat after me,” Steve says. _“Touch…”_

“Touch,” Bucky echoes, hating the way his voice trembles as he says it.

_“My…”_

“My…”

He feels it when Steve leans down and kisses his knee again. “Say it, Buck,” Steve mumbles. “What do you want me to touch?” He drags his lips over the skin, moving higher. “‘Cause I wanna touch you everywhere, I just need you to give me a place to start…”

“I want—” Bucky cuts himself off with a growl of frustration, before blurting out, as quick as he can before he has time to change his mind. “I want you to touch my cock.”

He holds his breath, waiting in the deafening silence that follows in the wake of his own words, until he hears Steve let out a low, breathless moan below him.

“Good,” Steve breathes. “Oh, that’s _good,_ sweetheart.”

Once again, his lips flutter across Bucky’s skin, and Bucky arches his back as he feels Steve’s hand stroke up the other leg. He tries to stay still, but like before, it’s a feat easier said than done. He moans as Steve reaches up and cups him briefly through his underwear, and he’s grateful when Steve doesn’t tease like he had the last time. Instead, Steve pulls Bucky's underwear down and off in a movement that is far too practiced to be coincidental, and tosses them over the edge of the bed.

“Deep breaths, now,” Steve whispers. “You know this part, so just lean back and enjoy yourself for me.” Bucky jerks as he feels the light brush of fingers along his shaft. “This time, I’ll make sure to make it last longer.”

Steve uses his mouth first, and the warmth that wraps around Bucky’s cock is both familiar and exhilaratingly new, all at once. Bucky breathes out a long sigh and allows himself to sink back into the mattress at the touch, gasping under his breath when Steve’s fingers close around the base of him. Steve strokes him slowly at first, but it doesn’t take long before he picks up pace. The palm of his hand rubs over Bucky's cockhead in slick, steady movements, twisting on the upstroke and loosening the grip on the way down.

Bucky keeps his jaw clenched, breathing through his nose. His limbs keep twitching, and he’s slowly losing control of his breathing as its disturbed by stutters and gasps.

“You’re not going shy on me, are you?” Steve teases. Bucky groans when Steve’s unoccupied hand rubs over his stomach in a wide circle. “I wanna hear you, Buck. You’ve got such a raw, sexy voice…”

The tickle of nails against the inside of his thigh has Bucky hissing, and then Steve’s tongue is on his cock, making him moan out loud.

“Yeah, just like that,” Steve praises. “Do it again, baby, moan for me.”

As if Bucky could stop.

Steve’s tongue and hands coax moan after moan out of his lungs, causing him to wring the bedsheets in both his hands just to steady himself. The sound of his own voice bounces off the walls, echoing around him, only to fade into the white noise that rises in his head with every wicked slide of Steve’s palm.

“You getting close?” Steve asks. He sounds far away, even though Bucky can still feel his touch burn his skin. “Bucky? Tell me if you’re close, sweetheart.”

“Close,” Bucky manages, gasping as he presses the back of his head into the pillow. “I’m close…!”

And he is. He can feel the climax come racing up his spine even as the words leave his mouth, and then… Steve lets him go.

The pleasure is paralyzing. It cuts off his breathing, his ability to move, to think. It leaves his cock twitching and swelling to the point of bursting, and then the sensations slowly bubbles down beneath the surface of his skin to simmer once more.   

Bucky barely has time to catch his breath before Steve’s hands are back, and with them, his mouth. Steve sucks him off, slowly, stroking in time with the languid bobs of his head. Bucky can barely stand to watch it, and still he can’t bring himself to look away. He stares, mesmerized and with his chest heaving, as Steve plays his tongue over the ridge at the base of his cock, up towards the head and around it. In less than a minute, Bucky can feel the tingle come creeping up his spine again, and he makes a valiant attempt to thrust himself further into Steve’s mouth, but to no avail.

The sudden lack of heat and touch when Steve moves away leaves him swimming in the white noise for a second time, gritting his teeth and writhing, helpless, until the orgasm fades back into that restless stirr in the pit of his stomach once again.

“Why do you keep stopping?” he groans, shuddering when Steve leans down to ghost the tip of his index finger against the head of his cock.

“To make it more fun,” Steve says simply. He pulls the finger away and licks off the clear thread of liquid that sticks to it, looking Bucky in the eye as he does.

“Fun _how?_ ” Bucky asks. Frowning at the mischievous smile that spreads across Steve’s lips in response, he suddenly wonders if maybe he would’ve been better off not asking.

“You’ll see,” Steve replies. Next thing, Bucky gasps out loud as Steve grips around his cock. This time, the strokes have him squirming within mere seconds.

“You know, I think I like you like this,” Steve muses. He picks up the pace of his hand, stroking harder. “Seriously, you looked sexy enough with your clothes on, but now… I mean, Jesus Christ…”

Bucky nearly sits up when Steve suddenly lets him go again, but he’s stopped by Steve’s hand on his chest as he’s gently pushed back down. Steve kisses his stomach as he climbs on top of him, groaning and moaning softly into his skin. Steve is still in his underwear, but the fabric that rubs against Bucky’s hip feels damp to the touch. A flickered glance down the length of their bodies confirms that there’s indeed a wet patch at the front of Steve’s shorts, and the sight is more than enough to send Bucky’s heart racing all over again.

“You want me to take ‘em off?” Steve asks. He reaches down and slips his thumb into the waistband of his briefs. “All you have to do is say it.”

“Take them off,” Bucky says. The words come easy this time, and Steve smiles, obeying him by pulling the garment down and off with a swift flick of his ankle.

Bucky groans as Steve straddles him, completely naked now. He’s hard, and he’s just about settled his weight on top of Bucky’s hips when he takes both his own and Bucky’s erection in his hands, and starts stroking them both.

The visual of it pushes a rumble out of Bucky’s throat. To watch the pad of Steve’s thumb press against the hard shaft of his cock, and how the softer flesh of their cockheads swell where they push together. Steve moans and tips his head back to the ceiling with a shallow thrust of his hips, and Bucky’s gaze locks onto the sharp jut of his Adam’s apple where it bobs in his throat, mesmerized.

Steve’s wet. There’s no possible way that the slick lubricating the palms of Steve’s hands could’ve come from Bucky alone. The slippery noise and feel of it brings a quake to Bucky’s limbs; makes his gut twist, and causes his balls to throb. He’s getting close again, but when he looks up at Steve to let him know—wanting Steve to wait and keep going all at once—Steve lets them both go in favor of leaning down to kiss him.

Steve presses himself against Bucky’s chest, rolling their hips together with a moan while they kiss. Bucky gasps into Steve’s mouth, groaning as he wraps his hands around the small of Steve’s back to bring him even closer. Steve chuckles. His breath fans over Bucky’s lips, right before he turns his head to latch his lips around Bucky’s earlobe with a low whine. The sound causes goose bumps to rise on Bucky’s arms and shoulders, all the way down to the small of his back.

“Fuck,” he hisses. His voice shakes, and his breath stalls when Steve licks around the shell of his ear. Just the sound of Steve’s breathing is enough to make him want to—Jesus, he barely knows, but he wants to do it with Steve. Wants to make him feel the same pleasure Steve’s giving him.

They move together, and two more times, Steve holds Bucky off. Just when Bucky feels like he’s reached his limits, that there’s no way for him to stop it, Steve pushes himself up and off, leaving Bucky balancing on the edge of mind numbing pleasure and near painful torment. Two more times, Bucky presses helpless moans into the crook of Steve’s neck, or throws his head back against the pillows while Steve gazes down at him from above. Bucky can see him smirk and bite at his bottom lip through the haze, obviously and shamelessly amused by Bucky's desperation.

Not that Steve’s completely unaffected, oh no. Bucky can predict the pattern soon enough, and he notices how whenever he adds a growl to his moans, or runs his hands down Steve’s sides to grip around his hips, Steve has to pause in order to ground himself.

When Bucky uses such a grip to rock Steve against him, Steve buries a trembling groan into the hollow of his throat as his hips suddenly gives a violent twitch. “God, you’re so fucking hot…” he pants. He shoves his pelvis down again, and Bucky gasps as he tries not to accidentally scratch metal fingertips into the small of Steve’s slender back when his fingers curl against his skin.

“You ready?” Steve pants. Bucky whines low in his throat, but manages a nod. This seems to both amuse and excite Steve enough to let out a winded chuckle and pause again.

“Are you sure?” he asks. “‘Cause I could go on.”

“Yeah, I bet you could,” Bucky growls, and Steve hums as he leans down to breathe against his ear.

“Was that sarcasm?” he teases. “Did you just make a joke?”

“I thought you wanted to have fun,” Bucky quips back. “Jokes are fun.”

“They are…” Steve groans as he puts his hips back in motion. “But I know of something even better.”

Steve presses his weight down over Bucky’s cock, and Bucky can feel Steve’s shaft line up with the hollow of his own hip. The slick of precome eases the way as they rut against each other, making them both gasp. Steve’s fingers are altering between gripping around Bucky’s right shoulder and running down the side of his body, playing him like an instrument while Bucky trembles and twitches. When Steve gives his nipple a playful pinch, Bucky chokes on his own breath.

“It’s okay,” Steve whispers against his neck. “I’ve got you… No more teasing, just let it happen, baby…”

Closing his eyes, Bucky tightens his grip around Steve’s body. He lets his flesh hand move down to grab around the narrow curve of Steve’s ass, and as Steve arches his back, Bucky braces his feet against the bed to gain leverage to thrust up even harder. Steve moans, loudly, and his eyes flutter shut as he tilts his head back.

“Yeah,” he pants. Bucky feels the heat boil in his veins as Steve’s voice rises into a whine. “Yeah, Bucky, c’mon. Fuck, sweetheart, keep going…”

“Steve… I can’t—” Bucky doesn’t get further than that before the light steals his voice away. There’s no pausing this time, nothing to stop the euphoria from taking him over. It fills him up, blinds him, steals his breath away, and he comes. Hard.

The warmth of his release coats his stomach, each burst of pleasure punching a moan out of his lungs as he pulls Steve down over himself, clinging to him through the high. As he does, he hears Steve gasp; just once, loudly, and then Steve presses his mouth against the column of Bucky’s throat as he comes, too. The sound and feel of his moans as they race down Bucky’s spine makes Bucky feel like he’s going through a second climax. He latches on to them the same way he’s latched onto Steve’s body, wishing for them to last, if only for a few seconds longer. Just so he can remember.

They don’t, however. Soon—far too soon—Steve’s breathing evens out. Bucky lies there, eyes closed, panting, feeling Steve rub his brow against his shoulder. He doesn’t have the strength to even lift his head from the pillow, but it’s not like any exhaustion he can recall having experienced before.

There’s no ache in his muscles, no sting from open wounds, or throbbing migraines. Even the pain from the ever-present headache he’s been nursing since his withdrawal has eased up. He feels relaxed. Like genuinely… loose.

“See?” Steve mumbles drowsily. “Told you it’d be fun.”

Growling, Bucky turns his head and kisses Steve’s neck. Briefly, he drags his teeth over the skin of Steve’s pulse point before falling back against the pillows with a breathless sigh.

“Well,” he says, “I still think my joke was pretty funny.”

 


	6. 6

 At first, Bucky’s visits to Steve’s apartment are random. Nothing more than sporadically scheduled sessions, whenever Steve happens to have an opening. They try to make it two times a week, because even though Bucky wants to go slow and savor his experiences with Steve, that doesn’t mean he wants them occurring any less frequently.

After a while, when Bucky’s grown more comfortable and it becomes clear that this is not something he wants to stop doing anytime soon, Steve sets up a regular appointment for him. Wednesdays and Sundays. He makes Bucky his last client on both occasions; probably so that he’ll be able to offer Bucky an extended session, should Bucky want it.

Steve never once asks Bucky where he gets his money, or what he does for a living, and Bucky’s fine with that. Steve has turned out to be exactly what Bucky had been looking for; professional, discreet, experienced… He honestly couldn’t have found anyone better for the job.

Steve is an excellent teacher. He guides Bucky through the process of sexual pleasure, one ecstasy at a time. He makes sure to let Bucky know exactly what he has planned for them, walking him through every single lesson, and checking in with him several times during, just to make sure he’s doing okay.

Bucky appreciates the concern—needs it, even. He’s genuinely surprised by some of the things that manages to yank him out of the moment, however. One time, after their session’s over, Steve uses a wet wipe to clean off the sweat and come clinging to Bucky’s stomach. However, it’s not the act of cleaning him that makes Bucky break, or Steve’s readiness to do it. It’s that once Steve’s done with his body, he takes another wet wipe and cleans off his face as well. The lingering touch to his temple leaves Bucky’s eyes burning wet before he even knows what’s about to happen, and even though Steve tells him that it’s okay, Bucky still feels dumb for losing control so helplessly. Steve says it’s common to cry sometimes after intense sex—something about hormones confusing the emotional centre of the brain. Steve doesn’t know there’s more to it than that. And Bucky doesn’t tell.

He lets Steve set the pace, and Bucky doesn’t push for them to try new things, too soon. He’s happy with letting Steve decide for him when it’s time to move forward, which so far has turned out to be a good decision.

Steve takes him from the basics: handjobs, blowjobs, and even dry humping on the couch one day when Bucky’s too impatient to wait for Steve to undress him properly. From there, he teaches Bucky about other, more advanced—but no less pleasurable—things that require a bit more preparation.

The rimming is… strange. Bucky won’t deny that it feels good, because it does— _god_ , it really does _—_ but it’s not something Bucky can bring himself to come to terms with as easily as Steve apparently has. Barnes thinks it’s weird too, and Bucky finds that he has to agree with him when Barnes mutters that there are better places to put your tongue than up another person’s backside.

Fingering, however… Now, that’s an activity he can get used to.

The first time Steve sends him over the edge that way, Bucky’s convinced that the orgasm has caused his entire body to disassemble and then put itself back together again. It’s the best orgasm he’s ever experienced. Or, at least that’s what he thinks, until Steve crooks his fingers again and flings Bucky into a second orgasm, just seconds after.

Before long, multiple orgasms have become one of Bucky’s all-time favorite pleasures. Combined with his rather impressive refractory period, it’s also an activity that Steve ends up growing rather fond of as well.

They don’t go further than that, however. Bucky isn’t sure whether penetrative sex is even something Steve does for his clients, and he’s doesn’t feel like he’s in a position to question it, if that’s the case. Steve’s the one in charge, and to be frank, Bucky’s happy with whatever he gets. That there’s even a possibility for him to get this, with anyone, is more than enough for him. And he doesn’t want to pry into why Steve hasn’t suggested they go further, in case it’s because of _him._ Or his am.  

The Soldier doesn’t voice any specific opinions about Steve. In fact, when Bucky’s with Steve, the Soldier doesn’t say anything. Bucky appreciates that. The space inside his head that’s normally occupied by the Soldier is left empty when Steve’s close, and it makes it easier to think. To reason like a human rather than a machine.

Not like when Bucky’s alone. That’s when the Soldier is the most vocal; telling him about how he should stick to back alleys rather then the open sidewalk. How his back is exposed when he stands in line at the coffee shop, and that the exits of the store are all blocked when he goes to buy food for himself.

It’s stressful. Not to mention annoying, seeing as Bucky knows full well that such precautions aren’t really needed anymore. Not to that extent, anyway.

In the months which have passed since the battle at the Triskelion, HYDRA’s demise has become a well-known fact, even outside of the deep-web of the Internet. Bucky has nothing to worry about from them, and whatever remnants that still exist of SHIELD, they’re not looking for him either. According to the reports out of D.C. the government appears to be under the impression that the Winter Soldier had died in the ruins of the Triskelion, with his body mangled into broken pieces beneath the tons of rubble that had come crashing down as the building fell. The death count hadn’t been high to begin with—only twenty-three dead—but the bodies found had been either crushed, dismembered, or in some cases, exploded. Bucky has a vague memory of being partially responsible for that last part, and even though that method of killing turns out to have served him well now, it doesn’t stop the guilt from clawing into him any less.

His newfound freedom is pleasant, no doubt, but there’s still a part of him that would have prefered to remain a fugitive. Like this, he’s out of his element; there’s simply no place left in the world for the Asset anymore. And being a soldier had been easy; staying out of sight, keeping to the shadows, always moving, never settling down.

Being a civilian is a million times worse.

The nightmares still hasn’t stopped. They’re not as frequent as they had been during his withdrawal period, but they’re still just as bad. It’s not every night, but it’s enough to make it more common for Bucky to wake up with a scream in his throat, and cold sweat clinging to his skin, than for him to get a good night’s sleep. Coffee is his only salvation, and some days he feels like he’s drinking the stuff by the gallon. It doesn’t always help, though.

The lack of sleep along with the caffeine makes him restless and agitated. It also makes his paranoia worse, since his brain has trouble discerning reality from the fears inside his head. He can’t relax, not fully, and he doesn’t quite fit in with the crowd no matter where he goes. One day, an old lady smiles at him from across the aisle at the grocery store, and he finds himself fleeing the scene with his pulse racing, expecting to get jumped by agents at any second. He doesn’t even take his groceries with him—just sets the cart down on the floor and leaves. He spends the next three hours just walking around the city, catching rides with everything from cabs, to buses, to subway carts in order to shake followers that aren’t even there. Nothing happens, and as he eventually enters another store to start his grocery shopping over, he feels like an absolute idiot.

He’s been in New York for almost four months now, and so far he hasn’t heard as much as peep about anyone looking for him. The Winter Soldier is _dead._ He died in D.C., and whatever phantom of him that had followed the Asset to New York had been left behind in the rundown motel room where Bucky had drawn his first, proper breath.  

Bucky is fully aware that he’s not the same person he’d once been. Before the war. Before HYDRA. Even if he had wanted to, there’s simply no way for him to return to that life. But he’s still a _person,_ and if there’s anything left for him to salvage from the wreck of who he used to be, then he intends to do so. If only to construct a foundation for him to build his future self on.

There are still things he can recall, flashes of people and places. Of things he used to do and enjoy, once. He remembers dancing. And drinking. The thick smell of tobacco and cigarette smoke, mixed with the clingy fumes of perfume and alcohol. The cool night air on his face as he stepped outside after a turn on the dance floor, with a sheen of sweat still lingering on his brow.

He finds music on the Internet; old vinyl records converted to digital files and uploaded for people to listen to—illegally, apparently. Some tunes sound familiar, others are just plain boring. A few, however, conjure bright and bustling scenes before his inner eye, and closing his physical ones, he actually believes that he’d be able to recall a few dance steps, should he try. Not that he feels a need to. It’s nice music, but to him, that’s also all it appears to be now…    

He takes to the streets a lot, too. Letting his feet decide where to go, he tracks down locations from his past, using landmarks from memory to navigate his way through the city. Sometimes he feels a flicker in the back of his mind when he passes through certain areas. They’re fleeting and only last for a moment, but they’re confirmation that he has indeed been there before. Just like with the music, he’s able to recognize some of them, but the emotional reactions aren’t there. The buildings are just buildings, the views just views, and when he looks at them there’s no nostalgia that beckons him to linger, nor turn back as he moves to leave.

The only place he ever feels a desire to return to is Steve’s apartment. Even though he has a standing appointment twice a week now, he still finds himself wishing for the days to hurry up, just to get him there faster.

He’s tempted to ask Steve if there’s a possibility for them to book a third weekly session, but he decides not to. He doesn’t want Steve to get bored with him by having Bucky forcing himself on his time. Not that Steve seems to mind having him around, but that might also be _because_ they are keeping it to two times a week.

So Bucky doesn’t request any extra time, and Steve continues to greet him with fond smiles and eager kisses whenever he comes over. Just like Bucky pays him to.

Bucky always pays Steve the regular fee right away. At first, Steve pages through the bundle to make sure it contains the right amount of money, but as he grows to realize that Bucky never miscalculates, he stops doing it. After a while he barely looks at the money when Bucky hands it over. He simply tosses it aside in favor of kissing Bucky senseless instead. At one point, he forgets about the payment entirely, far too busy with getting Bucky inside and undressed before Bucky has a chance to say as much as, “Hi.” When it’s time to leave, Bucky has to remind him that he still hasn’t been paid, and Steve looks close to disappointed when Bucky hauls the now-rumpled money out of his pocket.

Still, Bucky can’t help but linger in Steve’s apartment after their sessions are over. Steve doesn’t comment on it, and when Bucky offers to pay him for the extra time once he realizes how long he’s overstayed his welcome, Steve waves him away, telling him they can settle it later. However, even though Bucky tries to remind Steve about it, they never do.

It’s during one of those post-session occasions that Bucky learns that Steve likes to draw. And that he’s good at it.

Bucky’s lying splayed out in the middle of the bed with his eyes closed, relishing in the afterglow while waiting for Steve to either offer him an extended session, or ask him to go home. Steve never kicks him out, not really. He always takes extra care to tell Bucky why he has to ask him to leave: that there’s another client coming, or that he has an early morning the next day. Bucky gets it, and he doesn’t take offense. He’s just happy for the chance not to be alone for a little while longer.

Steve’s sitting, still naked, by the desk that’s been wrangled into one of the corners of the already tiny room. Last Bucky had checked, Steve had his feet propped up on the tabletop, with slender legs crossed at the ankles and his arms folded behind his head. Bucky had heard him move around shortly after he’d closed his eyes, registering the sound of the chair creaking, paper rustling, and the squeak of a drawer being pulled out and then shut. It’s not until he hears the distinct scratch of lead against paper that he peeks an eye open to check what Steve’s up to.

Turns out, Steve’s still sitting by the desk, just like Bucky had last seen him, only now he has a notepad propped up against his knees, and a pencil in his hand. His eyes are intensely focused on the paper before him. Needless to say, it has Bucky decidedly intrigued.

“Hey,” he rasps, pushing himself up on a metal elbow. “Whatcha doin’ over there?”

“What’s it look like?” Steve replies absently. He doesn’t even lift his gaze from the pad as he says it, and Bucky arches an eyebrow.

“Looks like you’re trying to hint me into leaving,” he answers.

“I most certainly am not,” Steve shoots back. He glances over the edge of his paper, and frowns at him. “In fact, I want you to lie down like you were before. You’re messing up my reference when you’re sitting up like that.”

“You’re drawing _me?_ ” Bucky asks in surprise.

“No, I’m assembling IKEA furniture,” Steve says with a sarcastic eye roll. “Of course I’m drawing you. Now lie down.”

Bucky snorts, but he does as he’s told. He lies down and turns his eyes to the ceiling above him with a sigh. The whisper of Steve’s pencil continues. Now that Bucky knows what he’s doing, he’s easily able to discern the little pauses Steve makes when he stops to compare Bucky’s figure to what’s already depicted on his sketch. For some reason, those seconds of silence, no matter how brief, manage to make Bucky feel even more naked than he already is.

“So how come you decided to use me for a model?” he murmurs drowsily, more to fill the silence than any particular desire to know.

Steve’s pencil pauses, but then picks up the sketching just as fast. “You were here, for one,” he says simply. “Not to mention you’ve got a body that looks like it’s been pulled straight out of the Iliad, so it would be a downright shame if I didn’t take advantage of that.”

Bucky feels the corner of his lip twitch up in a brief smile, just as Steve stops drawing to look at him again.

“Thought that was funny, did you?” Steve asks. He sounds amused, and Bucky’s smile widens.

“Which part?” he quips back. “That you just compared me to some ancient fictional hero, or that you think you’re taking advantage of me?”     

“Maybe both?” Steve says with a chuckle.

Bucky smirks. “Out of curiosity, then, which hero did you have in mind?”

“Not sure,” Steve admits. “There are quite a few to choose from. Achilles was considered the greatest, though, so… I guess you could be him.”

“I’m not sure I’m the hero type, though,” Bucky admits reluctantly. The idea of him portrayed as a hero is quite frankly ridiculous in his opinion, but it’s not like he can explain to Steve why.

Steve’s looking at him again. The pencil is silent, but this time the silence drags on for longer. Bucky’s just about to open his eye to look at him, when the sketching picks up once more, and he hears Steve drag for breath.

“Some people think Achilles was gay, you know,” he says nonchalantly, and Bucky frowns.

“They do?” he asks,

“Yeah. Apparently, according to the poems, he had this friend named Patroclus, who he was…unusually fond of. It’s never confirmed, not explicitly, but, I mean, it was ancient _Greece_. The only reason it wasn’t put in plain text to begin with was probably because it wasn’t needed back then. Besides,” Steve adds, not without a hint of bitterness in his voice, “just like in modern day fiction, Patroclus was written like any other remotely gay character ever, so there’s that.”

“Written how?” Bucky asks. “What happens to him?”

“He dies,” Steve replies flatly. “Achilles, of course, is overcome by grief. Stops eating, isolates himself, and throws fits of rage while blaming himself for Patroclus’ death. Classic mourning lover portrayal if you ask me.”

Bucky hums under his breath, voicing that he understands the reference. However…

“Why does he blame himself?”

“Because he had refused to fight in the war,” Steve says. “He had wanted to go home, but Patroclus wanted to stay and fight the Trojans. Since Achilles couldn’t convince him to go home with him, he gave Patroclus his armor for protection as a last resort to keep him safe.” Steve sighs, and his pencil falls silent. “Needless to say, it wasn’t enough.”

His voice seeps into Bucky’s skin, and Bucky swallows at the melancholy sentiment it causes to settle in the centre of his chest. “Then what happened?” he asks.

“Well, eventually, after he finds his footing again,” Steve continues, “Achilles goes back to the battlefield to seek revenge. He kills the Trojan leader who murdered Patroclus—even though the gods had warned him that by doing so, he’ll die himself before the war is over. Afterwards, Patroclus’ ghost comes to Achilles in a dream, and on his request, Achilles makes arrangements for the two of them to be buried together. _‘Do not lay my bones apart from yours, but let them lie together, just as we were reared together in your house,’”_ he recites softly.

“Are they?” Bucky asks. “Buried together?”

“At the very end of the war, Achilles ends up getting shot in the heel by an arrow and, like it was foretold, dies.” Steve says. “Although, whether he’s buried with Patroclus is never confirmed.”

“That’s a very sad story,” Bucky murmurs.

“It is,” Steve agrees. “The Greeks were like that, though. Nothing like a good old tragedy to liven up the party.” He goes quiet, and Bucky knows there’s more coming. However, as Steve speaks, what he says is not what Bucky had been expecting.

“Sorry.”

Bucky opens his eyes, and turns his head to look at Steve with a frown from across the mattress. “For what?” he asks.

“I just… I mean, here I am, going on about war, and soldiers, and people dying, when you—” Steve cuts himself off, suddenly looking embarrassed as he turns his gaze to the floor next to the bed. “I know you never confirmed it, but… Just like with the Iliad, it’s pretty easy to read between the lines…”

He glances up, but Bucky can’t bring himself to meet his eye. He looks away and swallows tightly, and Steve goes back to his drawing. For the following minutes, neither of them says a word, and the air is only disturbed by the faint sound of their breathing, the creak of Steve’s chair, and the scratch of his pencil.

Then suddenly, Bucky’s struck by a thought.

“Are you drawing the arm too?” he murmurs.

“You don’t want me to?” Steve replies, pausing.

“I… I’m not sure.”

“I don’t have to,” Steve offers. “I can just make it a regular arm if you like?”

“No,” Bucky says firmly. “No, that— That’d be worse.”

Another silence falls over the room. Steve doesn’t pick up his sketching, and the inactivity only has the hollow in Bucky’s chest growing even deeper and darker by the second.

“I think it’s pretty, you know.”

Bucky slowly turns his head around to look at Steve. Steve, who’s put his pencil down in favor of looking back at him.

“I know your feelings are most likely the opposite, but… even though you didn’t want it, I still don’t think it’s something you should be ashamed of having. I honestly don’t even think of it as anything other than your arm, and in a way… I guess you could say I’ve grown a bit fond of it.”

Steve’s eyes are soft as he says it. Honest in a way that makes Bucky’s chest give a hard clench, painfully so. But no matter how it hurts, it stops the hole inside of him from growing any wider.

Bucky licks his lips. He turns his eyes back to the ceiling, looking up at it through a blur of tears he blankly refuses to admit are there. “You can draw the arm if you want,” he says quietly, but Steve doesn’t agree. Bucky can see him shake his head from the corner of his eye.

“Nah,” Steve says with a wave of his hand as he reaches to pick up the pen again. “You don’t really want me to. No, I mean it, it’s fine,” he promises when Bucky drags in air to object. “I know what it looks like, I can just imagine it.”

For some reason, that last sentence makes Bucky flush, and he quickly clears his throat as he sits up. He rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes to rid them of the tears in a feigned display of drowsiness, before letting them drop to his side with an involuntary sniff of his nose.

“Can I see?” he asks with a nod to the pad in Steve’s lap, changing the subject. Steve glances down at the sketch. He looks reluctant—perhaps because the sketch isn’t fully finished yet, or because he doesn’t want to leave their current topic of discussion—but then he picks the pad up and drops his feet from the table in order to hand it over to Bucky. Bucky takes it, and as he turns it around to look at the page Steve’s been working on, his jaw drops.

The sketch is good.

Like, really, _really_ good.

He recognizes the profile of his own face without problem. Everything down to the lashes of his eyes has been depicted to perfection, including the little bump on the shell of his right ear.  Steve has drawn strands of his hair flowing out over the sheets beneath his head in dark, soft-looking curls. Like those of a Roman god’s in a renaissance painting.

His body looks thicker than Bucky would have pictured it himself; his shoulders wider, the muscles of his chest bulkier, and more defined. For a moment he wonders whether Steve’s taken some artistic freedom with that part of his anatomy, but considering the accuracy with which he’s drawn his face, Bucky quickly dismisses that thought. Apparently, his time in New York has not left him as lanky as he’d thought.

He also notices how Steve had left his left shoulder for last, and he can’t help but wonder if that had been done deliberately. The arm itself is not there. The only thing suggesting its existence is the faint hint of a metal shoulder plate just before the pencil strokes fade into nothingness. The scars are there, though. They spread from his shoulder and across his chest in a web of shadows and highlighted skin;  every detail traced in rough, yet impossibly clear strokes of graphite against the bone white paper. Somehow it doesn’t look as ugly as Bucky had imagined it would.

“Is that what I look like?” he asks. Steve leans closer, craning his neck to look at the sketch.

“It’s what _I_ think you look like,” he says, before adding with a shrug, “I might be biased, though.”

Bucky isn’t sure what that means, or in what way Steve would be biased when it came to his appearance. However, he _does_ know that the piece of art he’s just been presented with is a major compliment, and he finds himself at a loss for what to say.

Is he supposed to say thank you, or would that seem contemptuous of him? Or is he simply meant to hand the sketch back and not say anything? No, that seems even worse.

He looks down at the pad in his grip, taking the drawing in one more time.

“How come you don’t do this for a living?” he asks. He expects some sort of modest reply, like hearing Steve say he’s not good enough for that, but to his combined surprise and confusion, Steve just laughs.

“Being an artist isn’t exactly a high paid job,” Steve points out. “I’d be lucky to afford plain food on an artist’s salary, even less an apartment.”

“But you’re so talented?” Bucky objects.

“Doesn’t matter if I’m Van Gogh himself if people aren’t interested in buying what I’m selling,” Steve replies. His choice of words takes Bucky aback slightly, and before Bucky figures that asking might come off as rude, the question has already left his mouth.

“Is that why you’re working as a prostitute?” he asks. “Demand and supply?”

Steve gives him a long, steady look. He doesn’t answer—not right away—and the longer he looks at him, despite the two of them being equally stark naked, Bucky’s the one feeling increasingly embarassed where he sits on the edge of the bed.

Eventually, Steve appears to reach a decision, and looks away with a low sigh. “Primarily, it’s the money,” he says. “After college, I was in the same position as everyone else. I had loans, student debts, and no way to pay for them.” He gestures to himself. “Now, I know what I look like. It might not be much, but if there’s one thing I learned in college apart from how to cook dinner in the coffee maker in my dorm room, it’s that apparently, I am a ‘type’. I just decided to use that to my advantage.”

“So… you’re not in debt anymore?” Bucky asks curiously.

“Just about,” Steve declares proudly. “I still have a grand or two to pay off, but I could easily round up that money and still have plenty left to spare. I have savings set aside, I _own_ this apartment, and I’ve never had a day when I’ve had to make the choice between paying my bills or buying dinner.”

Bucky nods. It does sound like an agreeable arrangement.

“And,” Steve continues as he puts both of his legs up on his desk again, “unless I get the sudden urge to go spend a few hundred grand on a brand new sports car, I might even take a standing vacation to France one day.”

Bucky tenses up, but for perhaps the first time, Steve doesn’t appear to notice.

“I’ve always dreamed about visiting the Louvre museum,” Steve says wistfully, carrying on without any attention to Bucky’s sudden change in posture. “It’s been a dream of mine for years now. To look at all those masterpieces with my own eyes, and really get to _see_ them… And to visit the countryside. Maybe rent a cabin or something during the summer months. I bet the scenery would be amazing just about anywhere.”

“So what’s keeping you?” Bucky asks, trying hard no to sound as dejected about Steve’s words as he currently feels, and Steve shrugs.

“Nothing, really. I guess… it’s just not time yet.”

Bucky nods, but on the inside he feels cold. The idea that Steve might one day want to leave New York, or the States as a whole is something that hadn’t crossed his mind. Now that it has, he finds that it scares him.

He imagines himself coming around for one of their regular Sunday meetings, only to realize that Steve’s gone. Just a mental image of himself gazing in through the windows and be greeted by an apartment that’s gaping empty and hollow on the other side of the glass.

He’d be alone again.

He forces the thought away. He shouldn't think like that. If Steve wants to leave New York, he has every right to do so. In fact, if it’s what he wants, he _should._

“If you’re still in lack of money—” he starts, but Steve instantly raises a finger to silence him.

“Don’t do that,” he says. “I’m a prostitute, not a gold digger. Even if I did lack the funds, I would never want to get them that way.”

“So you’re not doing this because you have to in order to leave, then?” Bucky prompts. Once again, Steve gives him that sharp look—like he’s trying to decide whether Bucky’s worthy of hearing the answer. Once again, Bucky passes the test.

“Listen, I know what you think,” Steve says. “Poor prostitute, selling his body just to scrape by. Or being forced to, just so that some pimp can steal the money out of his hand before the client even pulls their dick out. Now, I’m not saying that doesn’t happen, because it _does,_ but not here. Not with me.” He throws his hands out to the side. “I’m just a guy who happens to like sex. I mean, let’s face it: I’m just doing something I would’ve probably ended up doing anyway. I also get to do it with good looking guys I vet myself, only now, I also get paid for it. Tell me, how is that any less moral than asking people to pay me for drawing them a portrait? Or to paint their house? Decorate their home?”  

Bucky doesn’t answer. He recognizes a rhetorical question when he hears one, and besides, he agrees. Perhaps it’s the Soldier part of him that likes to see it so rationally, but he doesn’t understand why people like to get so uptight about sexual services. Especially when they’re being offered during circumstances like these. In his mind, a person who’s being forced into sex, for whatever reason, is not a prostitute at all, but a victim. Just like someone who doesn’t receive wage for the work they do is not a worker, but a slave. To draw parallels between what Steve does, and what others gets done to them, against their will, and call it by the same name is not only stupid, but horrifying.

He nods. There’s no need for him to do anything else, because it only takes one glance to know that Steve’s already understood where he stands. Reading between the lines, as he had called it.

“I’m glad that you’re doing well,” Bucky says simply. “Not many people get to work with something they actually enjoy.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. He lets out a low chuckle. “I guess I could have had it way worse.”

“As long as you stay safe,” Bucky adds solemnly. He doesn’t intend to say it, but it slips out anyway, and Steve gives him a confused look.

“Of course I do,” he says. He doesn’t sound offended. More surprised that Bucky would care enough to say such a thing, and the tone sets off a protective spark inside Bucky’s chest.

“I’ve met people,” he says. “People who most of the world thought of as being good. Decent, earnest, hardworking… when in reality they were the exact opposite.”

“Bucky—”

“I don’t want anything to happen to you,” Bucky says, fast enough not to let Steve interrupt him. “I know it’s none of my business, but you— You’re a _good_ man, Steve. Maybe even the best I’ve met, so just… Just promise me you’ll be careful, alright?”

Steve stares at him. Then he ducks his head with a slanted smile and a huff. “Is that the hero-side of you talking?” he asks. He glances at Bucky, but looks away just as quick, and Bucky frowns, because that’s something that’s never happened before.   

“Maybe…” he says slowly. This time, Steve actually laughs as he brings a hand to rub at the back of his neck as he stands up from the chair, turning away from him.

“You’re such a dork,” Steve says, before clearing his throat. “I would have loved to hear more of your praise regarding my person, but sadly, I’m gonna have to shoo you out of here now.”

“Oh.” Bucky’s shoulders slump.

“Yeah, I, uh… I’ve got another one of those pesky clients coming in about half an hour, and I need to tidy up and grab a shower before then, so…” He’s trying to make it sound like a joke, but Bucky doesn’t hear the humor in it. Steve’s still not looking his way, and for the first time since Bucky first met him, he gets the feeling that Steve’s not telling him the whole truth.

Was it something he said?

Did he do something wrong?

He doesn’t put up a fight about it. That would just be stupid. Instead, he locates his clothes on the floor in silence, and quickly pulls his underwear and jeans on. Then he has to spend another minute trying to locate his left sock that somehow has ended up behind Steve’s trash can. Not that Bucky can recall how.

While he gets dressed, Steve methodically wanders around the bedroom. He makes the bed, fluffs the pillows, and straightens the covers; efficiently erasing any trace of what had transpired there between the two of them less than an hour ago.

It’s the first time Bucky’s seen him do that, and he’s…not sure how he’s supposed to feel about it. Of course he’s always known that Steve’s been having sex with other men in here, he’s not an idiot. But to actually witness how quickly Steve manages to tidy him right out of his life, without any sign of reluctance whatsoever, it…actually hurts a little.

They’ve never talked about it before, about Steve and his other clients, and after all, why would they? They’re Steve’s clients. Clients like Bucky himself. Bucky had chosen Steve for his discretion, so of course it makes sense that Steve wouldn’t mention his other customers to him; that’d be the direct opposite of what Bucky had chosen him for.

Since abandoning his stakeout of Steve’s apartment, Bucky’s never seen anyone else come and go while he’s been here. Steve most likely schedules his clients far enough apart so that they won’t accidentally meet in the door or something. Bucky can imagine that would kill their illusion of sexual privilege pretty quickly. However, as he comes to think of it, he hasn’t seen any marks on Steve that would suggest that he’s been physically close to anyone else either. No bruises, no hickeys, or scratches. Then again, it’s not unthinkable that Steve won’t let his patrons go that far. It’s not as if there’s been a situation where Bucky’s tried to do anything like that either; at least not with enough enthusiasm to leave marks.

It makes him wonder what Steve would do if Bucky were to suggest he let him.

Dragging his shirt over his head, he firmly orders those kind of thoughts out of his head. He _really_ shouldn’t think like that. Steve doesn’t belong to him, not in _any_ way—never has, never will. He should be grateful that Steve even wants to be near him. That Bucky is allowed to be this close to _anyone_.

He’s already allowed himself to get too attached. Telling Steve to be careful, offering him money… That’s not something a regular client would do, he knows that much. He needs to back off, and the knowledge leaves a heavy weight in his steps as he heads out the bedroom door and into the living room. It makes him feel lonely, even before he’s left the apartment; dispersing the domestic shimmer he’s allowed himself to indulge in up until that point.

Maybe he should find someone else to do this with?

He’s more experienced now, and he doesn't run the same risk of being hunted anymore. There’s still the issue with his arm, of course, but he can make up excuses to keep it covered if he has to.

He grabs his jacket from the coat hanger and shrugs it on just as Steve emerges from the bedroom, dressed in a robe. Ready to step into the shower the moment he’s locked the door behind Bucky’s back, no doubt. Bucky doesn’t want to linger on that thought, and so he reaches down to pull his boots on.

“Hey, I was thinking…” Steve says from behind him. “It just occurred to me that I’ve never asked, but… Do you own a cell phone?”

“Why do you ask?” Bucky answers vaguely, tying the knot on his left boot before moving on to the next.

“You know, the usual,” Steve replies. “Calling, texting… In case you wanna, like, talk sometime?”

Bucky pauses, fingers holding the loop of his laces, frozen mid-tie. “I don’t have one,” he answers.

“Oh,” Steve says. He sounds disappointed. “Alright. It was just a thought. No biggie.”

Although, it is. Bucky can tell from the way Steve won’t meet his eye when he walks out the door – that beaming smile lacking in its intensity as Steve closes it behind him. That had been an important question, and Bucky had blown it, somehow.

The thought haunts him as he heads down the street, and no matter how he tries, he can’t shake the memory of the discouragement in Steve’s voice from his mind. He feels _bad._ The sensation sits in the pit of his stomach long after he gets back to his motel room, gnawing at his insides, making him itch. He tries watching T.V. but it doesn’t help, nor does his regular research, or gun maintenance.  

At a quarter past eleven, Bucky gives up. Shrugging on his jacket, he heads out the door, taking the steps two at a time. There’s a twenty-four hour electronics store just a few blocks away. Bucky has no idea how much a cellphone costs, or what type of brand he should be getting, but if it means that Steve will smile at him again, he’s going to make sure to buy the most expensive piece of plastic crap he can get his hands on.

  



	7. 7

****Buying the cell phone turns out to be the best decision Bucky’s made in a very long time—second only to his previous choice of hiring Steve.

He gives Steve his number the next time they meet. He writes it down on a note beforehand, just to make sure Steve gets it right. Bucky himself has no trouble remembering number, codes, or digits, but he doesn’t want to risk messing it up by having Steve mishearing him.

“I thought you said you didn’t own a phone?” Steve asks in surprise when Bucky hands him the slip of paper.

“I was mistaken,” Bucky replies flatly. Steve raises a skeptical eyebrow at him. He’s clearly not believing the excuse for a second, but he takes the note anyway, and goes to pick up his phone from the coffee table.

Turns out Bucky needn’t have worried about Steve getting the number wrong, because the moment Steve finishes punching the digits into his smartphone, he calls the number up, and sends Bucky’s phone chiming and vibrating inside his jacket.

“You still have the default ringtone?” Steve asks with a snicker, hanging up.

Bucky shrugs. “I don’t really care what it sounds like.”

“Well, it sounds boring,” Steve declares. He holds his hand out. “Give it here,” he says, “I’mma pick one out for you.”

Bucky gives him the phone. He tries not to let it show that he notices the smile that creeps across Steve’s lips when Steve looks down at the default home-screen, without a doubt noticing the lack of application icons there. Watching Steve figure out that Bucky had gone out and bought a phone just for his sake is embarrassing, but at the same time Bucky doesn’t mind. Especially not since it seems to be making Steve happy.

Bucky watches Steve tap the screen, but as he leans in to see what he’s doing, Steve angles the phone away from hm.

“No peeking,” he orders. “You’ll see when I’m done.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but leaves him to it. Steve’s fingers work the buttons with nimble precision; scrolling, tapping, holding. It’s clear that he knows exactly what he’s doing, which is more than what can be said about Bucky. Bucky knows how to get a phone up and running, that part’s easy. It’s the rest that confuses him.

He looks on as Steve lifts the phone up and smiles at it, right before the recorded sound of a camera shutter comes sounding out of the phone’s speaker. Then, before Bucky can react, Steve turns around and aims the screen to them both.

“Smile,” he says while pressing his back against Bucky’s chest. Bucky looks up at the phone, not really knowing why. The shutter sound plays, and Bucky doesn’t even get to catch a glimpse of the screen as Steve immediately pulls the phone down.

“Did you just take a picture?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah,” Steve says nonchalantly. He’s already tapping on the phone again, and after another thirty seconds or so, he hands it back. “There you go. I put my number into the phone book for you too, so that you won’t accidentally delete it or something.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says. He looks down at the screen, and goes quiet as he realizes that Steve had used the picture he just snapped of them to give the phone a new lock screen. Steve’s smile in the photo is radiant as always, even though Bucky looks slightly caught off guard—something that’s rare enough to be seen at all, much less caught on film. It’s actually a pretty good picture.

“You don’t have to keep it,” Steve says. “Just thought you’d like something other than that boring factory reset one.”

Bucky blinks. “Yeah,” he says. “This one’s better.”

He pretends not to see the way Steve grins at him as he tucks the phone back into his pocket. In about three seconds, Bucky is determined use his mouth to wipe it off his face, anyway.

 

/\/\/\

 

The first time Steve calls him, Bucky nearly has a heart attack.

It’s a Tuesday. He’s at the grocery store, trying to decide whether to buy peaches or apricots. He had originally wanted plums, but they were out, so he’d been left with these two unfamiliar fruits that he knows nothing about. He had started eating plums because he read somewhere that they were good for memory, but… so far the only thing he’s developed is a slight obsession with them.

When the phone suddenly goes off inside his pocket, the blaring noise catches Bucky completely off guard, and he drops the peach he’s holding with a startled gasp.

_Hey I just met you…!_

The fruit goes rolling across the floor. Bucky paws at the pocket of his jacket, trying to locate the device once he realizes where the unfamiliar, upbeat tune is coming from.

_…and this is crazy, but here’s my number, so call me maybe?_

He pulls the phone out and looks at the screen. In a blur of colors, he registers that his lockscreen has been replaced by a caller ID with a photo of Steve’s face framed at the center. He presses the caller button.

_It’s hard to look right at you ba—!_

“Hello?” he answers with a light croak as he cuts the ringtone off mid-sentence.

 _“Hey,”_ Steve replies cheerfully, only to pause before continuing, _“You sound upset, is something wrong?”_

“What? No, no, I just— I couldn’t find my phone,” Bucky lies. He turns around and spots the peach at the bottom of the opposite fruit display. As he goes to pick it up, he catches sight of two teenage girls standing at the other end of the aisle, looking at him. Immediately, the Soldier perks up, on high alert towards strangers as always, but when Bucky sternly tells him to knock it off, his presence draws back and disappears.  

 _“Did you like the ringtone?”_ Steve asks, just as the two girls turns around to hide giggles behind their hands when Bucky meets their eye. Bucky clears his throat and quickly straightens up with a look at the peach in his hand.

“I— I’ve never heard that song before.”

 _“What? Really?”_ Steve snickers. _“Where’ve you been living, under a rock?”_

“Close enough,” Bucky murmurs back. He places the peach in his basket. He can’t put it back on the display now when it’s been on the floor, that wouldn’t be sanitary.

 _“Well, don’t worry,”_ Steve says. _“It only plays when I call. You’ve still got that boring standard ringtone for everyone else.”_

Bucky is stumblingly close to tell Steve that since he’s the only one who _has_ Bucky’s number, that doesn’t really matter. However he manages to catch himself at the last second. There’s no need to tell Steve what an absolute outcast he is, or that the longest conversation he’s had in the past two weeks apart from with Steve himself is with the cleaning lady working at the motel he’s been staying at lately. Her name is Sofia, and she’s grown rather fond of him—Bucky thinks it’s because he helps her change the sheets on the bed. She talks a lot, not really caring whether Bucky replies or remains quiet. Bucky doesn't mind just listening, because her monologues are actually pretty funny most of the time.

Bucky likes Sofia.

But he hasn’t given her his phone number.

 _“So what are you doing?”_ Steve asks, snapping Bucky out of his train of thought. _“I’m not bothering you, am I?”_

“No,” Bucky answers quickly. “I’m at the grocery store.”

 _“Ah.”_ Steve pauses. _“Whatcha gettin’?”_

“Uh…” Bucky looks at the peach in his basket, and then at the apricots in the display. “Fruit.”

_“What kind?”_

“Peaches,” Bucky replies dutifully. “I wanted plums, but they were out.”

 _“Plums are nice,”_ Steve agrees. _“Are you getting fresh peaches or canned ones?”_

“Canned peaches?” Bucky asks, frowning.

_“What, you’ve never had those? You should try some. Goes with ice cream like Oreos with milk.”_

“Right…” Bucky says slowly. He doesn't want to ask what Oreos are. He’ll google it later.

 _“You know what else is good?”_ Steve asks.

“No.”

 _“Doritooos,”_ Steve confides wistfully. _“The Spicy Nacho ones, especially.”_

“Alright,” Bucky says, heading away from the fruit section. He’s seen that brand name before, closer to the registers. “Are they very spicy?”

 _“You like hot snacks?”_ Steve quips back.

“Not really,” Bucky admits. “Salt is fine though.”

 _“I like to nibble on hot things,”_ Steve confides. The tone of his voice has Bucky recalling the touch of playful fingers skirting against the back of his neck. He shivers in spite of himself, even as Steve continues, his voice now perfectly normal, _“But sounds like you’re more of a Cool Ranch flavor kinda guy.”_

“Yeah, maybe,” Bucky agrees. He spots the snack aisle further down the row of shelves. In the phone Steve’s gone quiet, and Bucky wonders if maybe it’s because he’s waiting for Bucky to say something.

“Uh… So what’ve you been up to?” Bucky asks.

 _“Work,”_ Steve answers simply. _“I only have two clients scheduled for today, so I figured I’d call you in the downtime to talk.”_

“That’s… considerate of you.”

 _“Considerate?”_ Steve echoes with a chuckle. _“That’s an interesting choice of words.”_

“Sorry,” Bucky apologises as he spots the Dorito logo, turning the corner. “Words aren’t really my strong suit…”

 _“That’s okay,”_ Steve says. _“You’ve got other qualities that make up for it.”_

Bucky snorts out a low laugh. He chucks a bag of Doritos with the label Cool Ranch into his basket, and after a moment of silent consideration, he takes a Nacho Cheese, a Spicy Sweet Chili, and a Spicy Nacho one as well.

 _“You know, I was thinking,”_ Steve says, _“about tomorrow…”_

“What about it?”

_“Would you consider making it a double session? I have an idea for a new game.”_

Bucky’s immediately intrigued. “I could do that,” he admits.

_“Good. Do you know how to play poker?”_

“Yes.” Bucky clamps his mouth shut with a surprised frown. _Does_ he know how to play poker? His brain seems to think so, at least. “Although,” he adds, “I might need a quick run-through of the rules.”

 _“That won’t be a problem,”_ Steve muses. The fact that he sounds so pleased makes Bucky narrow his eyes in suspicion.

“May I ask why you wanna know?” he asks.

 _“Well…”_ Steve drawls, and yeah, he’s smiling now, Bucky can hear it. _“I have a version I think you might enjoy.”_

“Really?” Bucky replies slowly. “And does this version have a name?”

Steve laughs.

 _“Sure,”_ he says. _“It’s called Strip Poker.”_

 

/\/\/\

 

In just a week, they’re texting and calling each other on a daily basis. At first Bucky feels strange trying to hold a conversation on the phone. The lack of visual stimuli makes it difficult for him to tell when Steve’s making a joke, or when he’s being serious. There are no facial expressions or body language to guide him. More often than not he has to wait for Steve to explain what he’d meant, which has Bucky feeling both socially inept and stupid at the same time.

Also, what is he supposed to talk about? What do people do to avoid awkward silences when they’re on the phone? It’s not as if he can bring up any cute stories from his past. Some funny anecdote about how he had once shot a guy literally _in the ass_ , because the dumb fucker had decided to jump over a goddamn _wall_ the moment the Asset had squeezed the trigger? No, that’s not happening, not a chance in hell.

He’s lucky that Steve likes to talk enough for the both of them. He tells Bucky about movies he’s watched, music he’s heard, books he's read. Bucky takes note of every single title and stores them away in a notebook. He even color codes the pages with little labels; blue stands for movies and books since those are often linked together by various movie adaptations. Red is for music. The purple is for food, or any other thing Steve sounds overly enthusiastic about.

After a few days, Bucky buys a laptop. And portable internet on a flash drive, both to do research from his motel room, and to watch whatever movies Steve recommends.

In time their phone conversations get easier. It doesn’t take long before Steve seems to understand that sarcasm is something that needs to be accentuated gravely in tone of voice during phone calls. And slowly, Bucky learns to pick up on the things Steve says without the extra guidance. He even manages to get a few pop-culture references of his own in there a few times, to Steve’s audible delight.

Everything is relaxed, platonic, and casual; even domestic, at times.

That is, up until Bucky gets a text late one Thursday night.

Bucky’s in bed, watching yet another one of the movies from his list on the laptop. The plot revolves around a guy who gets caught in the crossfire as a group of terrorists launches an attack on his wife’s company’s Christmas party. Bucky is well aware that it’s a movie—made for entertainment purposes only—but he still can’t help but cringe at the blatantly unrealistic way the actors use their firearms. The main character’s gun handling is decent, he supposes. And the movie _is_ good; the part with the message written on the sweater in the elevator actually made him snicker.

Suddenly, his phone gives a sharp vibration on the bedside table as the screen lights up from a new notification.

Bucky pauses the movie with a tap of the keyboard and reaches for it. There’s only one person with his number, so he’s not expecting anything other than the message from Steve that greets him.

_[Hey. Are you awake?]_

[Yes,] Bucky types back.

_[Did I wake you?]_

[No. I’m watching a movie.]

_[Okay.]_

Bucky frowns at his screen. Just okay? No question about _which_ movie he’s watching, or what he thinks of it? There aren’t any emojis either. All the replies are short and unemotional, which aren't anything like Steve's usual way of writing. They make the conversation feel out of place in a way that Bucky doesn't like at all.

[Is something wrong?] he asks. He doesn't take his eye off the phone while he waits for Steve's reply, but this time, the response lingers.

 _[No,]_ it says as it finally lights up his screen, far later than what Bucky deems to be normal. _[Not really.]_

[Do you want me to call?] Bucky asks.

_[No, it’s okay. Thanks anyway.]_

Being honest with himself, Bucky has no idea what he would’ve said, should Steve have told him yes. However, this time he’d rather have made up the conversation as he went than been denied it as he has now.

He starts typing out a reply, but he doesn’t have time before another text message interrupts him.

_[I just had a bad meeting with a client. I thought I’d take on a new one, but… turned out this one didn't want to follow the rules.]_

In an instant, Bucky’s insides run cold.

[Are you alright? Should I come over?] he types as vivid images flash before his inner vision; images of Steve and this new client, and the rules that apparently had been broken.

Steve's only told Bucky of one rule, but given its nature, that's more than enough to send Bucky's stomach twisting with dread as he slams the laptop closed and pushes it aside. He’s already reaching for his jacket when Steve texts him back.

_[I’m fine, he never touched me. You don’t have to worry.]_

Slowly, Bucky sinks down on the mattress again as he stares at the message. His body screams at him to move, that he can’t just _sit_ here and do nothing. But Steve had rejected both his offer to come over, and to call. And now this? It makes no sense. How can Steve reveal something like that, and then tell Bucky not to worry?

[But I do,] Bucky types back. It's the only thing he can think of that doesn't sound like he feels hurt. Even though he might be.

 _[That’s sweet,]_ is the reply he gets. _[But really, just talking to you helps. I’m already feeling better.]_ Another whirr of the phone, and Steve adds: _[I honestly wish it was Sunday so that I could have met with you instead.]_

It’s a confusing moment. Bucky’s not sure whether that sentence makes him feel happy, or guilty. The message is honest in its simplicity, but it also makes the itch inside of him to _do something_ even worse.

[I can call tomorrow if you want?] he types, before adding, on chance, [Or come over?]

_[You don’t have an appointment tomorrow.]_

Bucky's stomach drops slightly.

[I know,] he writes. [I just wanna make sure you’re okay.]

_[My hero ;) You sure you don’t have a Greek god or something hanging around the family tree?]_

Bucky gives a huff of relief as some of the tension leaves his body. A smiley face is a good sign. He settles himself against the headboard of the bed with a pillow behind his back, like he’d been sitting before. Then he turns his attention back to the phone.

[Pretty sure,] Bucky writes back, even though he’s aware that his family is, and will most likely remain, a mystery to him for the rest of his life. So he adds another line to the message before sending it: [Considering how the story seems to end for Greek heroes, I’m not sure I’d want one either.]

_[Fair enough. Besides, going by the art originating from back then, there’s no way you’re related to any Greek deities at all.]_

[How come?]

_[Your cock’s too big.]_

Bucky snorts out a laugh and tips his head against the headboard with a low thud while closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again.

[I take it that’s a compliment?]

 _[It is. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.]_ There’s a short pause, and then…

_[I miss you.]_

Bucky blinks, and then a third message makes his phone to buzz again.

_[Tell me how you’d make me feel better if you were here.]_

Bucky swallows, and finds that his throat doesn't really want to follow the movement through as his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. He pushes the reply button, positions his thumbs to type, only to realize that he has no words.

Steve’s request is simple. What would Bucky have done, if he’d been with Steve right now? What would he have said or done?

Logic tells him that Steve's upset, and that means Bucky should try to provide with some sort of comfort. That's what's being asked of him, after all, to make Steve feel better.

Words aren't his strong side. He's more capable of doing over talking. So what does he want to do?

He takes a moment to think it over. He turns his thoughts inside his head, breaking it down to smaller pieces. Eventually, he reaches a scenario that makes the itch in his limbs lessen, if only slightly so.

[I’d pull you close,] he writes, [and take you into the bedroom. I’d lay you down on the bed, and then I'd continue to hold you until you fell asleep.]

He presses send.

He waits.

After a while, his phone vibrates, and when he opens it up, Steve’s message reads only one word:

_[Wow.]_

That's it?

Is Bucky meant to respond to that in some way? Gnawing on his bottom lip, Bucky lowers the phone. Perhaps that reply hadn’t been what Steve had wanted to hear? Like the time when Steve had told him to go home, right before he had asked him if he owned a—  

His line of thought is cut off when his phone suddenly starts ringing. It doesn't get time to play more than two beats before Bucky's answered it.

 _“Do you mean it?”_ Steve’s voice rasps through the receiver the moment Bucky puts it to his ear. There's a sniff. _“You really wouldn't do anything but that?”_

Steve doesn't sound angry, or offended, but it's clear that he's still upset about something. It makes Bucky feel even more confused than he already is, but he makes a quick decision to stick to the path he's already chosen.

“Yes, I do.” he therefore replies firmly. “And I wouldn't.”

 _“Fuck…”_ Steve lets out a laugh. But it doesn’t sound nearly as joyful as it usually does. _“You really are a piece of work, aren’t you…?”_

Frowning, Bucky slides further down the bed, so that the pillow is behind his head rather than his lower back when Steve continues, _“And here I was thinking you’d tell me ‘bout all the naughty things you’d do to me.”_

“I'm sorry. Would you have liked that instead?” Bucky asks hesitantly.

 _“No…”_ Steve murmurs. _“No, I liked your version better…”_ Bucky hears rustling as Steve shifts his weight around. _“Just makes me wonder what you’d do if I couldn’t fall asleep.”_

Bucky thinks for a second. “I’d probably kiss you,” he says. “On the lips if you were facing me. Or along your neck and shoulder if you weren’t.”

 _“Mhm, I’d like that…”_ Steve sighs, soft and drawn-out. _“Tell me more.”_

“I thought you didn’t want to talk?”

 _“Changed my mind,”_ Steve replies. _“I wanna hear your voice, so talk to me.”_

“About what?” Bucky asks.

 _“Dammit, Bucky,”_ Steve groans. _“Don’t be such a tease, you’re killing me here.”_

And that’s when Bucky gets it. “Oh,” he says. “Uh… You want me to…?”

 _“Yes, I want you to,”_ Steve says, damn-near moans it. _“I need you, Buck. Tell me what you’d do to me. Tell me where you’d touch me.”_

Bucky’s heart thuds against his ribcage; one time, hard enough to hurt. Just like that, his ears pick up noises that he hadn’t noticed before: Steve’s slightly elevated breathing, the tremble in his voice… He knows those sounds well enough.

“I’d push you onto your back,” Bucky replies hoarsely. “I’d kiss you.”

_“Uh-huh…”_

“I’d—” He closes his eyes, trying to envision Steve’s face. The curve of his nose, the angle of his jaw. “I’d cup your cheek and kiss you deep. Hard. Card my fingers through your hair.”

Steve hums, and Bucky registers the sound of fabric being moved.

“Are you getting undressed?” Bucky asks.

 _“Of course I am,”_ Steve shoots back. _“That’s sort of the idea.”_

“Oh.”

_“You should get undressed too.”_

Immediately, Bucky reaches down and fumbles his jeans open. As he lifts his hips up to shimmy them and his shorts down his hips, he hears Steve groan again.

 _“C’mon, don’t keep me waiting,”_ Steve begs. _“Keep going. What would you do next?”_

“I’d roll on top of you,” Bucky says. “And I'd reach around the small of your back and pull you in tight.”

 _“Yeah,”_ Steve breathes. _“Fuck, you’d be so huge. So goddamn massive on top of me… God, I can feel your hands on me right now, so big and strong…”_ He moans, louder. _“Are you touching yourself yet?”_

Bucky grabs around the base of his cock and squeezes slightly. “I am now,” he confirms. “Are you?”

_“Sweetheart, I’ve been touching myself since you started talking about pushing me down on my bed. I’m not sure how long I’m gonna last though, so if you want in on this, you better hurry up.”_

Bucky grunts as he begins to stroke himself. Finding the rhythm is easy, and as he matches it to Steve’s breathing, he lets out a low moan into the phone.

 _“Yeah, just like that. God I love listening to you,”_ Steve tells him. _“You’ve got such a sexy voice, baby.”_

“Glad you like it…” Bucky murmurs. He licks his lips and moans again. “Even though I would have liked this better if I’d been there with you.”

 _“Mm, but you are here,”_ Steve argues. _“You’ve got your hand around my cock right now. And it feels amazing, sweetie, you don’t even know.”_

“That’s all I want,” Bucky whispers. He closes his eyes again. “To make you feel good.”

 _“You always do,”_ Steve promises. _“The touch of your fingers… That cool metal skating up my spine…”_

Bucky’s stomach flips, and he gasps, hips twitching up. “You like that?” he asks, genuinely taken aback.

 _“Are you kidding, I love it,”_ Steve replies. _“I love everything about you. You hands, your body, that sexy growl you always make when you’re about to come…”_

“I growl…?” Bucky pants. He bites his lip as he twists his palm over the head of his cock on the upstroke. Just like Steve always does. Like Steve would have done had he been there right now.

 _“Yeah, you do,”_ Steve says with a deep chuckle. _“It’s so fucking hot, it drives me wild. It’s like I can’t get enough of you. Can’t even control myself, I—”_ Steve cuts himself off with a ragged moan, and the sound travels through the phone, down the line of Bucky’s back, all the way to his toes when Steve adds, _“God, Bucky, I need you to talk to me. I need you to be rough with me.”_

“Shit, Steve…”

 _“I need it,”_ Steve begs. “ _Please, Bucky. Tell me how hard you’d kiss me. How you’d tug at my lips with your teeth. Scratch my skin with your nails…”_

“I would,” Bucky gasps, nodding without even realizing it. “I’d do all of it, I promise.” He tips his head back as he thrusts up into the circle of his fist. “If we were standing up, I’d push you against the wall. Have you wrap your legs around my waist… Then I’d grind myself against you until you came all over us both.”

 _“Jesus Christ,”_ Steve hisses, and Bucky hears him drag in a deep breath through his nose.

"Or I could lay you down on your kitchen counter,” Bucky continues breathlessly, “and take you in my mouth while holding you down.” The words slam into him the moment he says them, surprising him with how much that scenario actually turns him on. He’s never had Steve in his mouth, and just like that, it’s the only thing he wants to do.

 _“Fuck, I’d like that,”_ Steve whines. _“Oh, sweetheart, promise you’ll do that. Promise you’ll suck me off one day.”_

“I will,” Bucky says. His voice has begun to shake, and it trembles along with the quake in his limbs as the fantasy brings the edge even closer. “I’ll make you feel good, Stevie, I swear.”

At that, Steve actually sobs into the phone, and the noise is followed by a whimper that steals Bucky’s breath away.

 _“Say that again,”_ Steve orders. _“God, Bucky call me that again.”_

“Stevie?” Bucky asks, and when Steve replies with a moan, Bucky barely manages to suppress the urge to growl.

 _“Yes…”_ Steve replies. _“Yes, sweetheart, yes… Oh, god, I’m so close. I wanna come so bad.”_

“Do it,” Bucky hisses.

_“Are you close?”_

“If you come, that won’t be a problem,” Bucky promises, and once again, Steve whimpers. “C’mon,” Bucky whispers. “C’mon, baby, let me hear you.”

_“Close… So close, so close…”_

“Stevie.” The name leaves Bucky's lips in a growl, even though he tries to stop it. _“Stevie…”_

 _“Oh, fuck yes…!”_ Steve whines. “ _Oh, Bucky. Oh, Bucky, I’m coming. I’m fucking coming, oh, god…!”_

“Do it,” Bucky gasps. He fists his cock, rolling his hips faster as he blurts out, “Do it, Stevie, shoot down my fucking throat.”

He hears Steve’s breath stutter. Then, everything goes dead silent for almost three full seconds, before Steve’s moan comes rattling through the phone and slams into Bucky’s mind.

Bucky comes silently. Breathlessly. His come dribbles down the length of his cock to pool at its base. The shaft pulses in his grip as waves of pleasure blanks out his vision, over and over. After the initial climax, he lets out a long groan, and shivers when he hears Steve answer him through the phone.

_“Jesus fucking Christ, Buck…”_

“Did I do it right?” Bucky pants. Steve laughs.

 _“Oh, you did it right,”_ he assures him. _“You did_ everything _right…”_

Bucky chuckles, and groans as he sinks deeper into the covers of his bed. His heart is still pounding, but his muscles are lax. He feels amazing.

“So what do I owe you for this one?” he asks while reaching for the spare toilet roll he keeps by his bedside table.

 _“Not a goddamn thing,”_ Steve replies firmly. “ _This one’s on the house.”_ Steve breathes out a sigh, moaning softly one last time. _“You still wanna come over tomorrow?”_

“If you want me to?” Bucky pins the phone between his ear and right shoulder – the left one just makes the phone slip, he’s noticed – and tears off a few sheets of paper to clean himself up with.

 _“Well, I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t, would I?”_ Steve quips back. _“I was thinking, if you feel like it, we could maybe watch a movie or something?”_

“That would be nice,” Bucky agrees. He drags the paper over the mess on his stomach, grimacing at the sticky touch. “I still haven’t seen that one… Forrest Gimp or whatever it’s name was.”

 _“Jesus, Bucky, it’s_ Gump, _”_ Steve corrects with a dismayed noise in the back of his throat. _“Forrest_ Gump. _”_

“Alright, _Gump,_ ” Bucky relents with an exaggerated eye roll as he wipes himself off one last time. “Why, what’s gimp mean?”

_“Oh, honey, that’s a lesson I’ll let Google teach you about, I think.”_

Bucky huffs, but lets the topic go. “Alright, so then we’ll watch Forrest Gump,” he says.

 _“Make sure to bring snacks,”_ Steve tells him. _“I’m all out.”_

“Doritos?” Bucky asks.

_“What else?”_

Bucky chuckles. He tears off a new sheet from the toilet roll and wraps it around the already-soiled paper, before dropping it to the floor. He’ll put it in the trash later.

 _“You have a really cute laugh,”_ Steve murmurs drowsily, making Bucky smile.

“Not as cute as your ass,” he retorts, and this time it’s Steve who laughs.

_“Touché.”_

“What, no argument?” Bucky objects in surprise. “You’re not gonna try to convince me I’m wrong?”

 _“Not really,”_ Steve says. _“I do have a pretty cute ass.”_

Again, Bucky chuckles, and the sound of it mixes with Steve’s drowsy giggle from across the line. It’s a nice sound. Bucky likes it.

 _“I better sleep,”_ Steve says after a while. _“It’s been a long day.”_

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “You should rest.”

_“Thanks by the way. You know, for cheering me up.”_

“Don’t mention it,” Bucky says softly.

_“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”_

“Yeah,” Bucky confirms. “Just text me the time and I’ll be there.

 _“Great.”_ There’s a pause, and then Steve clears his throat. _“Well… Good night, then, I guess.”_

“Good night.”

Steve hangs up, and Bucky puts the phone down against his chest and breathes out a heavy sigh towards the ceiling. Then he chuckles, dazedly, and smiles. “See you tomorrow…”

 


	8. 8

****Bucky leaves for Steve’s apartment at around eight o’clock in the evening the next day. He stops by the grocery store to buy snacks, as ordered, and picks up a few chocolate bars on a whim as well. He has no idea if Steve likes chocolate, but being prepared never hurt anyone.

He’s in a good mood. It’s been a great day, with the summer at its peak. Blue sky, warm sun, and even though his leather jacket and gloves are a bit too warm for the weather, he’s still not bothered by them. Bucky even catches himself whistling the refrain of Steve’s ringtone quietly under his breath as he walks.

The bag of groceries is dangling easily from his hand as he rounds the corner to Steve’s street. However, as he does, he notices that Steve’s already standing outside his apartment building, at the bottom of the stairs. He’s dressed in a plain white t-shirt and sweatpants. Barefoot. And he’s not alone.

There’s a woman there too, leaning against the railing by Steve’s side. They’re talking, which isn’t a strange thing in itself. The look on the stranger’s face, however, is.

She doesn’t look happy. Her expression is tight, stern, and even though Steve’s standing with his back towards Bucky, Bucky can see the way his shoulders are drawn up high by his ears, his posture defensive, but defeated. Whatever conversation they’re having, it’s obviously not a happy one.

Bucky slows his steps as his cheerful mood immediately ebbs away. He feels the Soldier caution him from the back of his head as the mechanics in his arm zing along with the muscles suddenly bunching up beneath his skin, tension layering itself over him, hard and unyielding.

Quickly, he makes an assessment of the situation. The woman is tall, much taller than Steve where she stands with her arms folded over her chest. She’s blonde, athletic, dressed in blue jeans, and a t-shirt. Her stance indicates that she knows how to fight, and has done so enough times to let it become part of her posture even in a relaxed state. It puts Bucky on edge. He has no idea who this woman is, or why she’s here talking to Steve. He makes a sequential note that there’s no signs of her carrying any weapons, however, he’s not sure whether that should make him feel at ease or worried.  

As he watches, the woman says something to Steve, and Steve sighs heavily, before digging his hand into the pocket of his sweats. When he pulls it out again, he’s holding a roll of bills in his hand, which he slaps into the woman’s hand with a glare. She doesn’t say anything. But as Steve continues to glare, she too reaches into the back pocket of her jeans and pulls something out. It’s small, wrapped in a white plastic bag, but due to the angle, that’s all Bucky has time to see before Steve snatches it up and stuffs it into his pocket.

By now, Bucky’s close enough to hear them. A normal person most likely would not have been able to, but being him, he has no trouble picking up the low tone of the woman’s voice as she says: “You know those things are no good for you.”

“Then next time don’t give them to me,” Steve shoots back without contrition.

“I’m just saying,” the woman argues, “you’re always talking about quitting, but you never do.”

“That’s my headache,” Steve says. “And I _have_ cut down since my last relapse, you know.”

“Doesn’t help if it’s a relapse.”

“Sharon—”

Bucky’s heard enough. Next to Steve, Sharon – or whatever her names is – opens her mouth to say something else. Then she looks over Steve’s shoulder and spots Bucky, mere seconds before Bucky grabs a hold around the back of Steve’s shirt with his gloved hand and pulls him away.

“I need to talk to you,” he growls as Steve stumbles in his attempts to catch his balance.

“Bucky? Bucky, what—?”

“Steve?” Sharon moves forward, looking ready to throw a fist at Bucky’s face should Steve say the word. Bucky arches his brow, involuntarily impressed.

“No, wait, wait!” Steve squawks. “It’s okay, he’s a friend.”

“Are you sure about that?” Sharon argues without taking her eyes off of Bucky’s face.

“It’s fine, I promise,” Steve says, even as Bucky starts tugging him towards the staircase by the collar of his shirt. He’s still trying to regain his footing when Bucky hails him up the first step; lifting more than pulling.

Sharon looks doubtful. She’s clearly not happy, but she lets her guard drop nonetheless; from the looks of things taking Steve at his word.

“Listen,” Steve calls down to her from the walkway above, just as Bucky flings the door to his apartment open. “I’ll call you later, alright? Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”

That’s all he has time to say before Bucky shoves him head-first through the door, following him inside. As he slams the door shut behind them, Bucky flings the grocery bag into the corner of the room where it hits the wall with a loud, ominous crunch.

“Bucky, what the _hell—?_ ” Steve starts.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?!” Bucky snarls.

“What?”

“What were you two doing down there?”

“What do you mean? We were just talking, I—”

“She a friend of yours?”

Steve’s befuddled expression shifts into a glare faster than what it should have been able to. He glares at Bucky, lips suddenly pressed into a hard, defiant line. “She’s not a hooker, if that’s what you’re asking,” he replies tightly.

“It’s not,” Bucky answers just as flat.

Steve’s glare hardens even further. “What then?” he asks. “You don’t like it when I talk to other people?” He snorts. “Jeez, if this is how you react to me talking to the neighbor, I’d hate to have you walk in on me with a client.”

“I don’t care about your clients,” Bucky says. “It’s you I’m worried about.”

“Yeah, right,” Steve says with a condescending snort. “Listen, I’ve gone through the whole controlling boyfriend scenario before, alright? I don’t need a rerun.”

“You gave her money,” Bucky deadpans.

“So?”

“And she gave you something back.”

Steve clenches his jaw and squares his shoulders. “So?” he repeats, dangerously low.

“For fuck’s sake, Steve,” Bucky growls. He looks away with a frustrated clench if his fists as he forces himself not to raise his voice. Yelling would only make things worse, he knows that, but the urge to walk up and grab Steve by the arm is more than overwhelming. He draws a grounding breath, shaking his head. “What the hell are you thinking?”

“That’s none of your business,” Steve replies tightly. “Besides, I’ve got it under control.”

“You think you’re the first person to say that?” Bucky shoots back. “ _Everyone_ thinks they’re in control. It’s what gets them _killed_.”

“You’re overreacting,” Steve objects, and Bucky snorts.

“Am I?” he asks. “I heard what you said down there. You’ve already tried quitting, but you can’t, can you?”

For a few seconds, Steve just looks at him. Then he swallows tightly as he clenches his jaw, determination settling over his features. “Are we really doing this?” he asks.   

“Doing what?” Bucky asks.

“This.” Steve gestures to the space between them. “The whole part where you try telling me what to do.”

“That’s not—”

“Like hell it isn’t,” Steve snarls. “You barge in here and start asking questions about my friends like some kind of self-proclaimed interrogator! Telling me what I can or cannot do with my own goddamn body? I can only assume you’re already planning to tell me to quit my job next?”

Bucky shakes his head, frowning. “I’m trying to _help_ you,” he objects. “I know firsthand what that shit will do to a person, and I’m not gonna let you—””

“Let me?” Steve echoes sharply. He takes a step forward. “You’re not gonna _let me?_ ” Squaring his shoulders, he stops less than three inches away from Bucky’s chest. As he tips his head back to meet Bucky’s gaze, Steve pulls his lip up in a snarl; physically baring his teeth at him as he hisses, “Well, if that’s the case, then you can fucking leave.”

Bucky stares at him.

“Get out,” Steve growls. “Right now, I mean it.”

“Steve…”

“Are you deaf?” Steve snaps. “I said _get out._ ”

But Bucky can’t move. He stands, frozen in the middle of Steve’s living room with a heart turned into a block of ice which is slowly sinking to his stomach, because Steve just told him to _leave._ Not leave because he has a client, or an early start, but because he’s angry with him.

Jesus, Steve’s _angry_ with him.

Bucky watches Steve give him another poisonous glare, before turning his back on him with a slow shake of his head.

“I can’t fucking believe this,” Bucky hears him mutter. “I should have known better than to let this happen.” Steve lets out a frustrated noise under his breath. “You know, I honestly thought you were different. That you were special, somehow.” His voice grows thick as he speaks, and as he turns his head to look down at his feet, he drags in a wet sniff through his nose. “Can’t believe I let you to get this close.”

His words hurts—actually, physically so—and the tone of his voice is a blade twisting in Bucky’s chest, driving the sentences in even harder. When Steve looks at Bucky again, his eyes are wet and glassy. “I mean, over a pack of cigarettes?” he asks in disbelief. “Really?”

Bucky’s frown deepens, and the sinking feeling in his gut comes to a still. “Cigarettes?” he asks, dumbfounded. Steve rolls his eyes as he reaches into his pocket.

“Yes,” he grates, carelessly tossing the item he pulls out at Bucky’s chest. _“Cigarettes.”_

Bucky catches the white bag that comes flying his way in the air, one-handed. The moment his flesh fingers close around it, and the shape and touch of the item registers in his brain through the plastic, he realizes what a mistake he’s made.

Slowly, he lowers his hand, and takes the square item out of the bag. They’re menthol cigarettes. Kool. The packaging lies innocently in the middle of his glove as he stares at it, mint green cardboard against brown leather.

“What?” Steve asks, most likely noticing the sudden shift in Bucky’s posture.

“I thought they were drugs… ” Bucky says under his breath. This time, it’s Steve’s turn to sound confused.

“Drugs?” he repeats. “Why the hell would you think it was _drugs?_ ”

“I don’t— The way you talked about it, I… I just saw you give her the money, and then—” Bucky looks up from the packaging in his hand as he pieces fall into place, one by one. “You smoke,” he says.

“I do.”

“And you’ve been trying to quit.”

“I have…”

Bucky closes his eyes and groans, hanging his head. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I thought you— Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Steve says slowly. Just like that, his voice has lost all its former hostility, and when Bucky opens his eyes, he finds that Steve has canted his head to the side to look at him. Bucky swallows tightly as he meets his gaze.

“Firsthand,” Steve murmurs. “That’s what you said, right?”

“I did,” Bucky says. He glances at the cigarettes in his hand and then holds them out towards Steve. Steve takes them without looking away from Bucky’s face even once.

“How long?” he asks.

“Since I got clean?” Bucky replies. “Or how long was I under?”

“Both.”

Bucky drags in a breath, but before he can answer, Steve’s raised his hand.

“Hold on,” he says, already moving away. He shifts his hand as he walks, pointing a finger to the couch. “Sit.”

Recognizing an order when he hears one, Bucky does as he’s told. Meanwhile, Steve goes behind the kitchen counter on the other side of the room, and Bucky hears the sound of the fridge door opening. The clink of bottles reaches Bucky’s ear as Steve closes the refrigerator, and next thing, Steve is walking up to the couch and holding out a cold beer for Bucky to take.

Bucky takes it with a hesitant glance at the label. 4.2% percentage.

As far as he knows, he hasn’t had any alcohol since before the war. Before HYDRA. He’s not even sure if he’s capable of getting drunk at this stage. He’d obviously been able to get drugged, but the difference in volume between his dosages and those used for a normal person had been staggering. If alcohol works the same, then one beer can’t possible be enough to affect him.

So he wrings the cap off the bottle, and takes a swig.

The flavor is familiar, just like the coffee had been. As he swallows it down, taking a breath through his nose, he subconsciously expects the heavy scent of tobacco smoke to linger in his nostrils.

He glances over to the window where Steve’s standing, his back turned to the room as he gazes out through the blinds. He’s still holding the pack of cigarettes in his hands, and he’s turning it over slowly in his grip. Bucky’s not sure if Steve’s waiting for him to speak, or if Bucky should wait for Steve to say something first. Normally, Steve’s the one calling the shots for them both, and so he decides to wait while he drinks from his beer in shallow mouthfuls.

Eventually, Steve gives a drawn-out, heavy sigh and knocks the top of the cigarette pack against his palm. “So, stop me if I’m wrong,” he says, “but would it be a fair assumption to make that the people who gave you that arm, were the same ones who got you into drugs?”

Bucky nods, but when he realizes that Steve can’t see him, he clears his throat. “Yeah,” he rasps. “That’d be about right.”

Steve nods. “And would it also be fair to assume that those weren’t very good people?”

“It would.”

Steve takes a deep breath, and nods again as he puts the cigarettes into his pocket and reaches for his beer. “Do you wanna tell me about it?”

Bucky’s grip around the bottle tightens. “I’m… not sure I can,” he says. “Not yet. Not all of it.”

“You don’t have to,” Steve says softly. “Start with broad strokes. The details can wait.”

Bucky swallows tight. He notices that his hands have begun to shake, and quickly sets the bottle down on the coffee table in favor of lacing his fingers between his knees. Keeping them still.

“There was a war…” he starts hoarsely. “And I got caught. Half my regiment too, but for some reason, the enemy thought I was special. So while the rest of my unit was used for manual labor in the factories, they used me for… something else.” He glances down at his left glove, but quickly looks away again. “Broad strokes? They cut off my arm, and then they gave me a new one. They tortured me, brainwashed me, pumped me full of drugs, and made me…do things. Made me think I _wanted_ to do them.”

He pauses to drag the back of a hand across his nose, sniffing. Steve doesn’t say anything, and Bucky doesn’t dare look at him.

“They made me forget who I was,” he continues. “About my name, where I came from… They turned me into a machine. A monster.” He swallows, sniffing again. “You asked me how long, and the answer is _too_ long…” Biting back a sob, he leans forward to briefly rest his head in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he hisses. “I can’t— I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Steve says. He turns around, his face soft, but the smile he aims at Bucky is sad. “I’m sorry those things were done to you. That you had to go through something like that.”

Bucky nods. His hands are trembling again, and this time, no matter how hard he clutches them, he can’t make it stop.

“When you first came to me,” Steve says, “you said discretion was important. That you needed to keep your arm a secret. Keep it hidden. Because they were still looking for you, weren’t they?”

“There was never any proof that they knew where I was, “Bucky says. “There still isn’t. But I couldn’t take the risk of them finding me.”

“You put your life in my hands,” Steve summarizes. He walks up to the couch, slowly, and trails the tip of his fingers along Bucky’s cheek. “That was reckless.”

“It was,” Bucky agrees through clenched teeth.

Steve lets his hand fall. Then he reaches into his pocket and takes the cigarettes out, holding them up with a little shake.

“I shouldn’t be smoking these, you know,” he says. “I’ve got asthma—had it since forever, really, and these really fuck up my lungs. But sometimes I grab one anyway, even though I know it’s a stupid thing to do. We all make mistakes. Because we’re human.”

Bucky looks up, meeting Steve’s gaze. However, as Steve shifts his eyes to Bucky’s left arm, Bucky turns away.

“Some of us more than others,” he mumbles. “I know what you’re trying to say, and I appreciate the effort, but you can’t compare smoking to the things I’ve done.”

“Shut up,” Steve whispers. His voice is soft, without malice, and yet the force of it jolts Bucky to the very core. Without waiting for Bucky to retort, Steve nonchalantly tosses the cigarette pack onto the table, before reaching out and gingerly tipping Bucky’s head up by the chin to gaze down at him.

“You’re not a bad person,” he says, moving his finger up to gently press it against Bucky’s lips. “Whoever you were back then, I don’t care. Whatever you think they turned you into. Because you’re not that person anymore.” He leans down and presses his forehead against Bucky’s brow. “This monster you’re talking about… It doesn’t exist. It’s gone. I most likely haven’t met the kind of people you’ve met, or done the things you’ve done, but I _have_ met people, and I _have_ done things. I’ve seen what monsters are like, Buck, and you’re not one of them.”

Bucky’s breath stutters as Steve angles his head to brush their lips together in what feels more like a caress than a kiss.

“I trust you,” Steve whispers.

“You shouldn’t,” Bucky breathes back. He’s given up on trying to make his hands stop shaking. By now, his entire body is quaking hard enough to disrupt his breathing, causing his teeth to clatter. He’s not in control anymore. And it’s terrifying.

“But I do,” Steve objects. “And I’ll prove it to you.”

Bucky actually tips forward when Steve suddenly pulls away. When he opens his eyes, he finds Steve in the process off stepping out of his sweatpants and tossing them aside, before putting a hand against Bucky’s right shoulder and pushing him back into his seat. Steve’s not wearing any underwear, and as he straddles Bucky’s lap, Bucky is too confused to do anything but stare and let him.

Steve takes a tender hold of Bucky’s right hand and brings it up to his lips. He kisses the tip of the fingers, one at a time, starting with the thumb. Once he reaches the pinky, he then turns and kisses his way back the same way, until he reaches Bucky’s middle finger. There, he stops, and drags his lips down the length of the digit to the base with a sigh that makes Bucky’s limbs shudder.  

“You trust me, don’t you?” Steve murmurs. Bucky nods, gasping quietly as Steve sucks the finger into his mouth with a hum. Bucky watches in a daze how Steve runs his tongue over his skin, up and down in hypnotizing swirls. The touch is gentle, caring in a way that it shouldn’t be. The light sifting through the blinds makes the saliva glisten, bright and radiant. They hadn’t turned the lights on when coming inside, and now the setting sun outside is painting the room in golden hues of red that gleam in the slick of Steve’s lips like molten fire.

By the time Steve lets Bucky’s finger slip out of his mouth, it’s slick enough to be near dripping. Bucky expects Steve to move on to the next finger; to tease him with another visual display, but he doesn’t. Instead, Bucky finds his building arousal getting momentarily interrupted by confusion as Steve grabs him by the wrist, and brings the hand behind himself.

“Here,” he urges. “You do it.”

“Do what?” Bucky asks.

“Open me up.” When all Bucky does is frown, Steve sighs. “I don’t let my clients prep me,” he explains. “For the times needed, I do that myself. There are too many things that can go wrong when people are too busy thinking about what they’re about to do rather than what they’re already doing. And I don’t want to get hurt because some guy can’t contain himself long enough to do it right. In short, I don’t trust people.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Bucky agrees.

“It is,” Steve agrees. He pushes Bucky’s hand closer, guiding the slickened fingers to rub against the curve of his ass. “But I trust you,” he says. “I know that you’d never hurt me. You’re too considerate. Too caring.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.” Steve drags in a sharp breath as he pushes Bucky finger between his buttocks, and Bucky echoes the sound when he feels the furled rim of Steve’s hole press against the tip of his finger.

“Finger me, Buck,” Steve whispers. He pushes at Bucky’s wrist, moaning under his breath. “Please.”

Bucky tears his eyes away from Steve’s face to look down to where his arm is disappearing behind Steve’s back.

“Please,” Steve repeats, more insistently. He rocks himself back against Bucky’s hand, moaning, snapping Bucky out of his temporary daze. How is Bucky supposed to say no? Especially when Steve’s begging him like that?

Pressing his finger closer to the center of the puckered skin, he watches Steve’s eyes flutter shut. The saliva makes the digit slick, and the tip slips inside with only a bare minimum of resistance. Bucky looks on as Steve’s eyebrow pull together, and how the notch in his throat bobs when his mouth falls open in a silent, “Oh…”

Bucky slowly eases the full length of the finger inside, until his third knuckle presses against Steve’s ass, and Steve’s chest is heaving in deep, grounding breaths. Then, he pulls it back out while keeping his eyes fixed on Steve’s face. He does it again, in and out, and with every repetition, he makes sure to file every last shift of Steve’s face away inside his memory.

“Crook it,” Steve breathes, thrusting back against his hand. “Crook it like I showed you…”

Bucky knows what he means, and he bends the finger to curl it against the warmth of Steve’s body, only to have Steve gasp and clutch around the top of his right shoulder as he does.

“Yeah, like that,” Steve pants. “Just like that. Fuck…” Steve rocks back and onto Bucky’s finger, and Bucky lets him. His metal hand balls into a fist against the couch cushion as he subconsciously matches his breathing to Steve’s own. His chest rises and falls along with the steady pumping of Steve’s hips, and as he crooks his finger again, Steve moans out loud, tipping his head back. Keeping his firm grip on Bucky’s shoulder, Steve suddenly reaches out blindly with his other hand. Bucky stiffens when he sees Steve’s fingers brush against the cushion next to his metal ones.

“Touch me,” Steve pleads. He smooths his hand along the edge of Bucky’s hand again; never touching it, simply beckoning it closer. “I wanna feel your hands.”

Bucky raises his hand, and pauses. Steve slows his rocking, looking at the hand that's poised, mid-air between them. The sunlight that hits the metal plating makes them look like gold; beautiful, but as Bucky knows, deadly all the same. He stares at it, up until Steve suddenly reaches out and ghosts his fingers against his jaw, angling his head away to look at him instead.

“Please,” he begs.

It’s all he says, but it’s enough.

Without a word, Bucky closes the distance as he smooths his hand up Steve’s clothed torso. He feels Steve’s chest expand beneath his touch while metal fingers trail along the bumps of ribs, before dipping down to Steve’s stomach, and around his hip. He pushes his hand underneath the edge of the white t-shirt to fit it against the small of Steve’s back. Steve shivers at the touch—most likely because it’s cold, but Bucky finds himself wishing that the reaction was caused by more than just temperature.

He rubs his other finger in an experimental circle, attempting to locate the bundle of nerves inside Steve’s body that Steve’s taught him so much about. In return, Steve groans in appreciation, and fists the fabric of Bucky’s shirt in his hands.

“God, you have no idea how many times I’ve thought about this,” he mumbles. “To have you inside of me…” Moaning again, he rolls his hips as the corner of his lip twitches up into a dazed smile. “Fuck, it’s even better than I thought it’d be…”

Bucky doesn’t answer. Instead, he brings his hand around to the front of Steve’s shirt once more to rub a metal thumb against Steve’s left nipple. Steve chokes down a noise and arches his back as he pushes his chest forward, urging him on. Bucky obliges him. He gives the nub a light pinch as he rolls it between the pad of his fingers, feeling Steve’s body clamp down around his flesh finger as he does.

“Take your shirt off,” Bucky growls under his breath. Steve’s breath catches, and then he’s scrambling for the hem of his shirt while trying to keep humping Bucky’s finger at the same time. He drags the shirt up and off in a single movement as his back curves to push his exposed chest towards Bucky’s face. The temptation is simply too much.

Bucky leans in and licks at Steve’s left nipple while he keeps toying with the first. He twirls his tongue around it, sucks it between his lips, and gives it a light nibble with his teeth. When Steve’s reaction is to shove his entire body closer, however, Bucky quickly moves his hand down and clamps it around Steve’s hip. Locking him in place with a low whir of his joints, Bucky continues to lick and nip at Steve's chest, moving from left to right in intervals while he fingers him.

Steve’s hands fumble over his chest, his shoulder, up around his neck; frantic, and uncoordinated. The t-shirt is hanging limp in his grip still, but after a few seconds, Steve lets it go and drops it onto Bucky’s lap. Steve’s breathing hard, and Bucky can hear him gasp out broken sentences above his head as he wraps his arms around Bucky’s shoulders. He squirms in Bucky’s grip, helplessly caught between the digits holding him by the hip and the one rubbing over his prostate. He’s unable to move—although Bucky’s pretty damn certain that at this point Steve doesn’t really want to—and when Bucky takes his nipple between his teeth and _pulls_ , Steve buries a breathless whine into Bucky’s hair.

“Fuck…” he whimpers. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, oh fuck…”

His voice vibrates against Bucky’s lips when Bucky kisses his way up Steve’s throat, dragging teeth along his skin, feeling Steve gasp and jerk against him in return.  

“Oh, god, Buck, go faster,” Steve chokes. “Go faster, you gotta—”

“No.” Bucky pauses, finger coming to a halt, and Steve turns his head down to stare at him when Bucky pulls back to look him in the eye and add, “I want it to last.”

A soft sob blubbers past Steve’s lips, but it morphs into a moan when Bucky picks up the  pace again. Steve doesn’t close his eyes. They’re glassy, dazed, but he keeps them open, keeping them locked on Bucky’s face even as his limbs start to tremble.

“Show me,” Bucky whispers. Steve nods as he swallows down a groan. His body jerks, and Bucky feels the movement of Steve’s hips struggle against his grip. Steve’s cock bobs up against Bucky’s stomach, glistening wet at the tip. For a second, Bucky is tempted to lean down and lick it, but if he does, he won’t be able to see Steve’s face, and right now he wants to _watch_.

“Show me,” he repeats. “Let me see you.” He’s not sure whether or not he’s using the right words to get his point across, but Steve seems to get it anyway. He whines as his cock bounces again, as if Bucky’s words had been more effective than the finger currently inside him. Steve’s already trembling hard enough to make his teeth clatter, and his breathing is coming in hard, broken gulps of air as his thighs tense over Bucky’s lap.

“Let me see,” Bucky urges again as he quickens the movement of his hand, and the muscles in his arm bunches with the effort it takes to keep the pace even. Steve’s eyes instantly widen. With a hoarse cry, he slumps forward to wring Bucky’s shirt in one hand, while gripping around his bicep with the other, shaking along with the pistoning motion of Bucky’s wrist.   

“That’s it,” Bucky urges. “That’s it, show me. _Show me,_ Stevie.”

“Fuck…” Steve whines. “Oh, fuck, I’m— Oh, god.” The hand slips from Bucky’s arm as Steve paws at Bucky’s chest, his shoulders, desperate and frantic, until finally he manages to loop his arms around Bucky’s neck. Bucky’s still going, and when he hears Steve’s breath catch on a sob and then go completely silent, Bucky lets Steve’s hip go in favor of grabbing him by the hair and pulling him back far enough for Bucky to see his face.

Steve comes. He comes with his gaze clashing with Bucky’s in the fraction of a second where he’s still fully able to _see_. Then his eyes go blank as Bucky’s name falls from his lips, once, twice, looping in a whisper that doesn’t seem to end as his orgasm dribbles down his shaft and onto his discarded shirt which is still covering Bucky’s lap.

Gently, Bucky eases up on the grip on Steve’s hair, and Steve slumps against him with a sigh, breathing out his name against Bucky’s neck while the final quakes wrack his limbs. Bucky strokes long, soothing lines of metal down the length of his spine while Steve comes down, and he shivers when Steve moans as Bucky slowly eases his finger out of him.

Steve continues to cling to him as Bucky leans back against the couch, and even though they’ve both gone quiet now, there’s something lingering in the air between them. Something intimate and new.

They’ve crossed a line tonight, and Bucky can tell that Steve knows that, too. So when he feels one of Steve’s hands slip from around his shoulder to reach for the hard-on pressing against the fly of Bucky’s jeans, Bucky stops him.

His fingers close around Steve’s wrist with a drowsy murmur of hydraulics, and when Steve makes a surprised noise in the back of his throat, Bucky leans in and gives his shoulder a soft kiss.

“No,” he whispers. “Not tonight.” He kisses Steve’s shoulder again. “We had plans, remember?”

Steve lets out a disbelieving chuckle as he sits up tall to give him a skeptical look. “You’re saying you’d rather watch some dumb old movie?”

“Right now, I’d watch a radio play, as long as I’d get to do it with you.”

“Smooth talker,” Steve murmurs, smiling. He stretches his arms over his head with a groan, and then grimaces as he carefully gathers up the soiled t-shirt from Bucky’s lap. He uses it to wipe himself off, before standing up.

“I’m gonna go get some new clothes,” he says, “and call Sharon. Make sure she’s not worried.”

“Yeah, about that…” Bucky starts with a bow of his head, but Steve waves his unspoken apology away.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says firmly. “She’ll understand. It was all just a big misunderstanding, shit like that happens.” He turns and begins to walk towards the bedroom, and Bucky sighs, standing up. He’s already started on his way towards the kitchen area to wash his hands off when Steve suddenly stops in the bedroom door and turns around to face him.

“You remember what I told you the first time you came here?” he asks. “About how I could tell that you were a soldier?”

Bucky looks at him as he nods in silence.

“Sharon’s a veteran,” Steve says. He pauses to lick his lip, looking down at his feet. “She rented the apartment next door when she came back from her last tour the year before last. I helped her carry her moving boxes up the stairs when she arrived. She had two.”

He clears his throat and nods with his head towards the wall behind Bucky’s back. “We hit it off pretty quick, and since she didn’t have any furniture yet, I invited her to sleep on my couch. She bought a bed the next day, but… she ended up sleeping in here for almost three months anyway. Said she couldn’t stand the silence in her own apartment. Anyway… she used to check the windows, too, first thing walking through the door. Every single day.”

Chuckling to himself, he glances down. “I guess, what I’m trying to say here is…that we’re all a little broken, you know? And that you shouldn’t feel like you need to, like, _fix_ anything about yourself _,_ in any way for my sake. Or anyone else's,” he adds quickly. “You are who you are, and you deal with you in your own pace. The people who can’t accept that really aren’t worth your time, you know?”

Bucky blinks as Steve gives him a look from across the room, and then Steve clears his throat and gestures to the bedroom over his shoulder.

“I’m just gonna…”  

“Yeah.” Bucky nods, showing that he gets it, and Steve fires off a quick smile as he disappears through the door, leaving Bucky on his own.

Bucky washes his hands in the kitchen sink, scrubbing down with probably about twice as much handwash as he actually needs, but he’s not really focusing on his soap dispensing skills at the moment.  

Something is different. _Steve_ is different. His voice has changed, and the way he looks at Bucky now is… It’s not the same as it had been. Before.

And it’s not a bad different. At least Bucky doesn’t think it is. It doesn’t feel like something he’d like to avoid. It actually feels pretty nice. New, yes, and slightly perplexing, but nice.

He dries his hands off on a kitchen towel and goes in search of the grocery bag. Picking it up from the floor, he feels a sting of guilt at the soft crinkle of plastic coming from inside. He had completely overreacted before. He had made Steve angry enough to tell him to _leave_ , thinking that Bucky had been trying to _control_ him, and—

His thought process freezes, even as his legs keeps carrying him towards the coffee table when Steve’s voice comes drifting back through his memory; the tone short, closed off. Disappointed.

_I’ve gone through the controlling boyfriend scenario before, alright?_

Mechanically, Bucky reaches into the plastic bag and lifts out one of the Dorito bags he had purchased earlier, without even paying attention to which one he picks.

Bucky’s not Steve’s boyfriend. He’s his client. Steve had probably not intended to say it like that, as if Bucky was—could be—anything else. He’d been upset, and the sentence had most likely been a reference to Bucky’s behavior, not his relationship with Steve as a whole. It’s the most logical explanation.

Bucky is well aware that emotions are fickle, and more often than not make people say and do things they don’t intend. He shouldn’t read too much into it. That, or that Steve had asked him to open up about his past, acting like he’d been genuinely concerned about Bucky’s feelings. Or that he’d told Bucky that he trusts him. That he’d let Bucky touch him in such a way that he wouldn’t let anyone else. Or that he’d said he had been thinking about what Bucky would feel like inside of him…  

He realizes that he’s about to crush the Doritos against his chest when the sharp crackle of snacks breaking alerts him that he’s clutching the bag far too tightly. He quickly snaps himself out of his momentary daze and set the snacks down onto the coffee table, before digging out the chocolate bars from the bottom of the plastic bag.

He’s just about to put them down next to the Doritos when Steve comes back into the room. He’s dressed in a new, grey t-shirt, and a pair of jeans. He’s still barefoot, but when he spots the chocolate in Bucky’s hand, he stops dead in his tracks.

“Did you open any of those?” he asks.

“What?” Bucky looks at the chocolate bars and then back at Steve. “No.”

Steve’s shoulders slump in relief. “Good,” he says. “Uh… Maybe don’t.”

“Why not?” Bucky asks with a frown.

“Because I’m allergic.”

“To chocolate?”

“No,” Steve says, smiling faintly. “To peanuts.”

Bucky looks at the chocolate again and feels a flustered blush creep up his cheeks when he reads the logos of the Snickers and Reese’s bars that glare back at him.

“I didn’t know,” he apologizes.

“I know you didn’t, it’s okay,” Steve assures him. “Just, I mean, as long as you don’t eat any, I’ll be fine.”

“Is it bad?” Bucky asks, already emptying the rest of the Doritos onto the coffee table before stuffing the chocolate back inside the now-empty bag. “What happens if _you_ eat some?”

“Most likely, I’ll die,” Steve says jokingly, but Bucky doesn’t see the humor in that statement. Steve seems to notice, because he quickly adds, “But it’s okay, I can still be _around_ them. I was just thinking that if _you_ eat them, then I can’t… I mean, I won’t be able to kiss you. At least not tonight.”

Well, that settles it. Bucky gathers up the bag in one hand as he moves across the room, and Steve follows him with his eyes and a curious tilt of his head as Bucky reaches for the front door.

“Buck,” Steve says, as he realizes what Bucky aims to do, “you really don’t have to—”

Bucky opens the door and defiantly sets the bag outside with a reprimanding look Steve’s way. He knows what Steve had been about to tell him, but that simply won’t do. The chocolate goes. Not because of what Steve had said about the kissing, but because Bucky’s not willing to risk Steve’s health simply because Steve wants to be _polite_.

“There you go, being a hero all over again,” Steve says, sighing as Bucky closes the door. As Bucky heads back to the couch, Steve reaches out and stops him with a gentle tug around the waist, pulling Bucky in to wrap both arms around the small of his back.

“And you’re an idiot,” Bucky retorts. “You seriously thought I’d consider keeping that stuff in here knowing it has the capacity to kill you?”

“Only if you would’ve kissed me after eating it,” Steve argues.

“Isn’t that what I just said?”

Steve laughs and casts his eyes down. Then he looks up with a smirk as he starts to lean to one side, coaxing Bucky to go with the movement as he begins to sway them both from left to right. “You bought me chocolate,” he says.

“I could have killed you with it, too,” Bucky counters. “And it wasn’t that big of a deal?”

 _“You bought me chocolate_ ,” Steve insists. “It’s the thought that counts.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but Steve just chuckles as he leans up to stand on the tip of his toes in order to plant a swift kiss on his mouth.

“C’mon,” he says, “let’s go watch that movie.” He grabs Bucky by the right hand—still making sure not to touch his left—and starts pulling him towards the couch. “And since we got rid of all that pesky chocolate, if you decide that you think it’s boring, we can just kiss instead.”

Bucky smirks.

“Good strategy,” he agrees.

 


	9. 9

Bucky sits up, back rod straight, the sound of his own voice still echoing between the walls of his motel room. The sheets cling to his heaving chest, moist and clammy with cooling sweat. He’s already got his hand curled around the hiltof the knife he keeps between the mattress and the headboard when he realizes where he is. Or rather, where he _isn’t._

Another nightmare.

He can’t remember this one either, which, when he thinks about, might be a good thing.

Putting the knife back, Bucky lets out a shuddering breath before dragging his palms up over his face. He knows he’s won’t be able to go back to sleep. Not now. So he throws the covers off and stands up from the bed while using metal fingers to push away the strands of hair stll sticking to his face. Aimlessly, he walks over to the coffee machine and flips the on-switch. It’s already loaded with coffee grounds and water, but it’s still frustrating to wait.

While the coffee brews, he goes back to the bed, and picks up his phone from the bedside table. The lock screen makes him smile—like it always does—and as he stalls punching the code in, just to look at it for a little longer, he is overcome by a sudden wish to hear Steve’s voice. Even if only for a second.

He glances at the alarm clock. Two AM. There’s a chance Steve might still be awake. On the other hand, he might also not be.

Unlocking the phone, Bucky opens up a new text message, and starts typing.

[Hey. Are you sleeping?]

He’s already hovering his thumb over the send button when another thought strikes him.

 _Maybe he’s with a client?_   

It makes Bucky pause. If Steve’s with a client, then Bucky shouldn’t disturb him. They talk so often now, there’s a risk Steve might get annoyed if Bucky starts getting too clingy. Bucky glances down at the phone in his hand. He deletes the text, and tosses the phone on the bed.

He’ll watch some T.V.

It’ll work just as well.

 

/\/\/\

 

A week goes by. Steve and Bucky meet up for movie nights two more times outside of their regular appointments, and on the nights they don’t, they spend everything between two to four hours just talking on the phone.

Bucky likes it more when he gets to spend his evenings at Steve’s place, though. Even if all they end up doing is cuddling, he’d rather spend ten minutes on the couch with Steve’s head leaning on his shoulder than home in his motel room all by himself.

He had brought up the question about payment for the movie nights once.

_Once._

Steve had told him, very firmly, and with a fervor Bucky had been surprised to see outside of a Hollywood movie, that he has no intention of making Bucky pay for something _Steve_ had suggested they do. He had also added that if Bucky tries to pay him anyway, he’ll take the money and shove it—  

That’s where Bucky had cut him off, and promised never to bring it up again. He's not sure whether Steve’s threat involves mentioning payments for regular sessions as well, but he doesn’t feel particularly inclined to risk it. So he keeps quiet and decides that if Steve wants his money, he’ll tell him so.

One night when they’re watching a movie, Steve, who usually sits with his head resting against Bucky’s shoulder, suddenly slumps down and puts his head on Bucky’s lap. Just like that. He does it so effortlessly, Bucky is actually impressed. One second he’s sitting. Next, he’s horizontal on his side, with his cheek pressing against Bucky’s thigh, while his thumb rubs absent minded circles against Bucky’s knee.

Of course, Bucky’s had Steve’s head on his thigh before. But they had been naked at the time, and Bucky had been too busy watching Steve tongue at the head of his cock to give the position any proper thought. Now, it’s a different story.

Normally, Steve would already be reaching for Bucky’s fly, or massaging him through his pants. But he’s not. He just lies there, with his eyes fixed on the T.V., and doesn’t say or do anything else. The silence has Bucky hyper aware of every single movement Steve makes. The subtle shifts of his head, the pace of his breathing, whenever he reaches out to grab a snack or a drink from the coffee table. And that one, infuriating finger running back and forth over the length of Bucky’s thigh.

He powers through it. Making a conscious decision to not let himself get bothered by this sudden change in mannerism, Bucky turns his attention back to the screen as well. They’ve only watched another additional five minutes when Steve reaches up and grabs a gentle hold of Bucky’s left sleeve. He tugs, once, and Bucky lets his metal arm fall down from the back of the couch where he had kept it during the first half of the movie, and puts his hand in the dip between Steve’s ribs and hip. As he does, Steve hums and snuggles closer. After a while, Bucky starts mimicking the slow circles of Steve’s thumb over Steve’s own waist, and smiles to himself when he feels Steve shiver in response.

The movie’s good, even though it’s not the best they’ve seen so far. When it’s over, Steve rolls over onto his back and reaches up to smooth his palm over Bucky’s cheek with a fond smile.

“You thought it was corny,” he says.

“No,” Bucky objects quickly. “It was…interesting. I didn’t know there was such a thing as shrubbers. Or killer rabbits.”

“I don’t think there are, actually,” Steve says with a laugh.

“What about the swallows?” Bucky prompts.

“Oh, they exist,” Steve deadpans. “Both the African and European kind.”

Bucky laughs and tips his head against the backrest. He feels Steve’s hand stroke down his neck, and he sighs, still smiling. They fall silent. Steve toys with a few strands of Bucky’s hair, weaving them between his fingers, slowly.

“You’ve got split ends,” he murmurs after a while.

Bucky hums, still with his face towards the ceiling.

“You should cut it,” Steve says.

At that, Bucky lifts his head and glances down.

“You don’t like it?” he asks.

“Of course I like it,” Steve says with a huff. “That’s why I think you should keep it healthy.” He sits up and turns towards Bucky with a contemplative tilt of his head. “I could help you, if you want?”

“Help me cut my hair?”

“Yeah. Or trim it, really, it doesn't need much.  I’ve helped Sharon a few times. I’m pretty good at it, if I may say so myself.”

Bucky looks at him, and swallows. “Alright,” he says. Steve’s face lights up, and he runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair one more time.

“We should wash it first, though,” he says, turning a sly glance Bucky's way. “We could shower together,” he drawls. “I could scrub your back. Give you a head rub… And another kind of rub….”  He scoots closer to wrap his arms around Bucky’s neck. “It’d be fun. Wet and steamy, all at once.”

“That sounds nice and all,” Bucky says slowly. “But I’m not all that fond of showers.”

It’s an understatement, but he doesn’t want to tell Steve the truth. Steve doesn’t need to know about those things. Not yet.

“That’s okay,” Steve says cheerfully. “We can do it in the tub.”

“No,” Bucky says. “No, we don’t have to. Some other time, maybe.”

“It’s really no trouble,” Steve insists. “You can kneel on the floor, and I’ll use the showerhead to—”

“Dammit, Steve, I said _no._ ”

Instantly, Steve snaps his mouth shut, pulling back. Bucky ducks his head.

“Sorry…” he mumbles. “I didn’t mean… It’s complicated.”

“It’s okay,” Steve replies quietly. “I didn't think of the— Listen, we can cut it dry. It doesn’t have to be wet. In fact, it might even be better to do it that way.” He lifts his hand as if he’s about to pet Bucky’s hair, but stops. Instead, he uses the grip of the hand still at the back of Bucky’s neck to pull Bucky forward, and press their foreheads together.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m being too pushy, aren’t I?”

“No, you’re not,” Bucky objects.

“We don’t have to cut your hair if you don’t want to.”

Bucky sighs. He rubs his brow against Steve’s as he drags in a grounding breath through his nose. “No,” he says. “I want you to do it. Like you said, I should keep it healthy.”

“You should,” Steve agrees softly.

“Can we do it now?”

“You sure you want that?” Steve asks, pulling back again to look Bucky in the eye. “We can always wait?”

“I want to do it tonight,” Bucky says. “If I don’t, I might change my mind.”

“Alright. Tonight then.” Steve smiles at him, and when he strokes his hand over Bucky’s hair, Bucky leans into the touch with another sigh. “C’mon,” Steve says, standing up, and Bucky follows.

Steve walks over to the two seat dining table and pulls a chair out. “Sit here. I’m just gonna get the things we need.”

Bucky sits down, and Steve disappears behind the kitchen counter to rummage through the drawers.

“Have you thought about how you want to cut it?” Steve asks, emerging from the drawer with a pair of scissors which he puts on the counter as he walks around it.

“Not really,” Bucky answers with a glance at the scissors. “We only started talking about it five minutes ago.”

“Fair enough.”

“I think I wanna keep it long, though,” Bucky says, following Steve with his eyes as he disappears through the door to the bathroom. It’s the truth. He can’t see himself wearing his hair short again, like he knows he once had. Like in the photograph found in his HYDRA file. He’s not that man anymore.

“I can do that, no problem,” Steve answers. His voice echoes between the tiles of the bathroom, and for some reason the sound sends an uncomfortable chill racing down Bucky’s spine.

He waits.

He can hear Steve open and close cabinets inside the bathroom, the sound of fabric rustling – a towel, maybe? His eyes fall on the scissors on the counter again, and instantly, his ribcage feels too tight for his lungs to fit inside.

“There we go,” Steve announces when he returns, dropping a set of towels and a comb on the dining table. “I could have sworn I had a larger towel, but I must’ve misplaced it.”

He starts spreading the towel out on the floor around Bucky’s chair, and finishes it off by draping the last one over Bucky’s shoulders.

“Makes it easier to clean up,” he explains when Bucky gives him a quizzical look. “My vacuum’s been a bit unreliable lately. I really should buy a new one.”

As he talks, he walks over to the counter and picks up the scissors. Then, he returns to stand behind the back of Bucky’s chair.

“So just a trim, then?” he asks, and Bucky nods.

He can’t bring himself to reply verbally, and when he feels the touch of Steve’s fingers comb through his hair, he physically shivers. He balls his hands into fists.The whirr of his arm is sharp, and he tells himself to knock it off. It’s just a haircut. It’s just _Steve._

However, when he feels Steve grab around the top of his shoulder and gently pull him flush against the back of the chair, suddenly it’s not. And when he catches a gleam of the scissors in the corner of his eye, it’s not a pair of scissors he sees, but the metal frame of a halo, and one half of a vice coming in to clamp down on his face.

He stands up so fast, the force of the movement shoves the chair backwards over the floor. His vision is blurry and he wipes furiously at his eyes as he staggers across the floor to lean against the kitchen counter.

“Bucky?” Steve asks. He sounds startled. Scared. “What’s happening, what’s wrong?”

Bucky shakes his head. He’s short of breath, cold sweat suddenly beading over his skin while his heart pounds against his chest hard enough for it to hurt.

“I can’t—” he manages. “The chair, I can’t—” There’s not enough air in the room. He’s cold, shivering, muscles coiled beneath his skin without him being able to relax them. Bucky grits his teeth and turns his head to the ceiling, forcing himself to hold his breath and stop hyperventilating. He’s panicking. He has to calm down.

“Bucky?”

 _“I can’t sit in the chair,”_ Bucky hisses. He groans and takes a deep breath as he lets his head hang down between his shoulders. Bracing himself against the counter, he keeps breathing. Just breathing. It should be easy, he does it all the time, but right now someone might as well ask him to fly and he’d probably have more luck doing that.

He can hear Steve move behind him, hesitant footsteps approaching across the wooden floor. “Is it the seat?” Steve asks. “Like… Is it too hard? Cause I can get you a throw pillow…?”

“No, no.” Slowly, Bucky turns around. His gaze flickers to the chair, but even though it doesn’t look any different from before, he can’t stand the sight of it for more than a second. He turns his eyes away, knowing that Steve’s still looking at him.

“It’s not the seat,” he grates. “It’s the— Sitting down like that, with someone behind me, it’s… It’s too much like what it was back then. In their chair.”

Bucky hears Steve drag for breath as he comes to a sudden stop behind him.

“It’s alright,” Bucky tries. “I’ll manage, I just need a minute.”

“Bucky,” Steve says softly. “Look at me.”

Bucky doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to look at Steve, and discover how much of his pain Steve actually _sees_ . Because of course Steve gets it. Even though he can’t possibly _know._

He looks anyway, and when he meets Steve’s eye he has to brace himself not to look away again just as fast. Steve is wearing the exact expression Bucky had been expecting, and seeing it hurts. Not because he doesn’t want Steve to look at him like that, but because it confirms everything Barnes has told him so far, and that the Soldier has tried so hard to argue away. How hard HYDRA had actually managed to break him.

But he holds Steve’s gaze, and Steve looks back at him, for a moment seemingly torn between talking and moving before he eventually speaks. “You don’t have to sit in the chair,” he says. “Alright?”

Bucky swallows tightly as the words form a lump in the back of his throat. He feels his lips wobble, and hates himself for it. However, as he ducks his head to hide the new onset of tears, Steve steps up. He wraps his arms around Bucky’s shoulders, even though he can barely reach around them, and pulls him in. Bucky doesn't try to fight it, even though he grits his teeth against the side of Steve’s neck to keep the tears at bay.

“I know it’s hard,” Steve speaks softly while rubbing his palms over Bucky’s back. “You don’t have to explain.” He runs his hand down to Bucky’s forearm and squeezes his wrist. “But if you still want it, there’s another way we can do this.”

Bucky sniffs and lets Steve take a step back, and Steve takes a hold of Bucky’s hand.

“C’mon.”

Bucky follows when Steve gives his arm a gentle tug, walking behind him as Steve leads him into the bathroom.

Steve’s bathroom is small, with white walls and cabinets. The top of the sink and the floor are a matching gray color, which would have looked boring and depressing had Steve not chosen to decorate the room with livid green towels and an equally green, fluffy bathroom mat. It’s a bright bathroom. Cheerful and uplifting.

Steve positions Bucky to stand in front of the sink. “I’ll be right back,” he says, kissing the back of Bucky’s hand before letting it go. He hurries out the door, only to return seconds later with a towel slung over his shoulder, the comb and scissors sticking out of his back pocket, and carrying the chair Bucky had been sitting on out in the living room.

Bucky tenses. “I thought you said—”

“It’s not for you,” Steve reassures him as he sets the chair down. “It’s for me.”

Bucky frowns, but when Steve scoots the chair closer and then proceeds to climb on top of it, Bucky realizes what his plan is.

“Alright,” Steve says. “So, all you have to do now is just _stand_ here. I’ll be combing through your hair as I go to make sure I get it all even, and cut it one section at a time.” He catches Bucky’s gaze in the mirror. “You know the rules,” he says sternly. “The moment you need to take a break, you tell me, alright? Even if it’s just for a few seconds. Promise me, because if I find out you’re forcing yourself just to save face, I’m gonna get real upset with you.”

Bucky nods. He recognizes the tone, and he knows that Steve means every word of what he says.

“I promise.”

“Good,” Steve says. “Now, take a deep breath, hold it for a few seconds, and then let it out, nice and slow.” He waits for Bucky to do as he’s told, and then he takes out the comb from his pocket. “I’m gonna start with combing your hair now. You can keep watching me in the mirror, or close your eyes, whichever makes you feel better. I'll let you know when it’s time for the cutting either way.”

“Okay.”

Bucky swallows and straightens up as he aims his gaze forward as Steve leans down and carefully pulls the comb through the lower section of his hair to detangle it. He works slowly, delicately. The pace reminds Bucky of the way he’s seen Steve draw, with the pen moving over the paper in short, but precise strokes of his hand. The sight is relaxing, and Bucky exhales, slow, and swallows down the last of the lump in his throat.

Steve combs through his hair, working through it from the bottom up, left to right. Once he’s finished, Bucky expects him to move on to the scissors right away. Steve doesn’t. He continues to comb, with both comb and fingers this time. He twirls the strands between his fingers, toying with them, until suddenly the comb is gone and all Bucky can feel are Steve’s hands in his hair, massaging his scalp in lazy, circular movements.

Slowly, Bucky’s eyes slide shut, and he sighs, humming low under his breath.

“That feels good,” he mumbles.

“That’s the point,” Steve muses. Bucky can feel Steve lean forward, and how he plants a kiss on the side of Bucky’s neck. As he does, however, the chair gives a sudden wobble beneath Steve’s feet, and Bucky swiftly reaches behind himself and steadies Steve with his arm.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed on that thing,” he scolds while Steve stands up tall with a low grunt.

“Don’t worry,” he says,“if I fall, I promise to aim for the tub.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if you fell on me?” Bucky asks, peeking his eyes open. “I think I’m softer than a vat of steel and porcelain.”

“And mess up your hair after I’ve put such effort into making it neat?” Steve says with a snort. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Bucky can’t help but chuckle at the affronted tone of Steve’s voice, and he hears Steve giggle next to his ear before another kiss lands on his cheek.

“Are you feeling ready?” Steve whispers softly. He rubs at the back of Bucky’s head, and Bucky tips his head into the touch with another grateful hum.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m ready.”

Steve stands up, and Bucky watches him take the scissors out of his pocket and separate the blades while threading his fingers through the holes of the handle. Just like last time, he feels fingers comb through the hair at the back of his head, but now they feel soft and safe.

The first snip of the scissors startles him, but that’s about it. Soon, the rhythm of Steve combing through his hair mixes with the sound of blades opening and shutting. It’s oddly hypnotic, and Bucky finds himself paying less and less attention to the scissors, and spending more time watching the intent expression on Steve’s face instead.

Every so often, Steve pauses to meet Bucky’s eye in the mirror, and each time, he smiles comfortingly.

“You’re doing great, you know,” he says at one point. “We’re almost halfway through already.”

“It’s easier like this,” Bucky agrees. “Standing up, I mean.”

“Glad to hear it,” Steve says. Then he goes back to the cutting, and before he knows it, Bucky’s allowed his eyes to slip closed again.

Eventually, the scissors fall silent, and Bucky feels Steve ruffle his hair around, before using the comb on it one last time.

“I think it’s done,” he announces.

Bucky hums as he leans back a little to push his head against Steve’s stomach. “You can keep combing it if you like, though,” he offers.

“What?” Steve teases with a chuckle. “Was that a request I heard just now? You like having your hair played with?”

“I’ll admit nothing,” Bucky murmurs, humming again when Steve grabs hold of his hair with both hands and tugs at it playfully.

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says while gently shoving him back into an upright position. “How about you take a look and tell me whether you’re happy with it or not first?”

With a smirk, Bucky opens his eyes. He looks to the mirror, and what he sees causes his smile to slowly drop.

His hair is shorter, but not by much. It falls in smooth, soft locks around his face, framing it. It’s been parted, not straight down the middle like Bucky normally does, but slightly to the left, giving him bangs that merge with the rest of his hair. Steve can’t possibly have cut more than half an inch, but it feels like a whole new face staring back at him.

The more he looks, the blurrier the image gets as his eyes start to burn wet. He tries to swallow, but can’t, and as the first tear rolls down his cheek, he can’t even bring himself to wipe it away.

“Bucky…?” He feels Steve’s hand, light like a whisper on his shoulder. “Bucky, sweetheart, what’s wrong? Did I mess it up, don’t you like it?”

Bucky shakes his head as he fumbles for Steve’s hand. Squeezing it tight, he brings it to his trembling lips and kisses it, hard.

“No,” he whispers under his breath with his mouth still tightly pressed against the back of Steve’s hand. “No, it’s perfect.”

Another tear falls, wetting Steve’s skin, but Steve doesn’t pull away. He simply leans forward and wraps his other arm around Bucky’s shoulder as well, and Bucky turns in his arms to lean his head against Steve’s front as he embraces him in turn.

He cries, silently, and Steve lets him. He smooths his hand over Bucky’s hair and kisses the top of his head, slowly swaying the two of them back and forth. He doesn’t say anything, and Bucky’s grateful for that.

 

/\/\/\

 

They’re in bed. Outside Steve’s bedroom window, the afternoon sun is beaming down from a cloudless sky, turning the streets scalding hot. Steve’s had the blinds pulled down the entire day in an attempt to keep the sweltering heat at bay, but without much success. There’s a floor fan standing in the corner next to the desk, but even though it helps to create a draft, the air in apartment is still thick and sticky.

Bucky had put his hair up in a ponytail in a desperate attempt to relieve himself off the sweat dripping down his neck. Steve had called him sexy for it, and Bucky had blushed in spite of himself. Being naked had been the closest to and most logical relief they could get, and even though it’s technically supposed to be one of their regular sessions, they still haven’t found the energy to do anything but just lie on the bed together for the past hour.

It’s nice, though. Bucky is lying curled up on his side with his head resting on Steve’s chest. He’s got his left arm lazily slung around Steve’s waist. The metal is apparently cool, and Steve had not been slow to take advantage. In return, Steve’s brushing his fingers lightly up and down the length of Bucky’s naked spine, and every now and then Bucky hums under his breath in appreciation while he listens to the steady sound of Steve’s heartbeat.

There are two dirty plates on the bed next to Steve’s hip, with two spoons. As Bucky snuggles his head against Steve’s pectoral muscle, Steve plucks the last piece of apple pie from the nearest plate and puts in his mouth.

“This,” he says around the bite, “is seriously the best damn apple pie I’ve ever had.”

“Glad you like it,” Bucky replies drowsily.

“Where did you even learn to make that? You a cook or something?”

“I picked it up from T.V.,” Bucky admits. He shivers when Steve’s fingertips make a slight detour to stroke down the length of his ribs, before going back to his spine. “There’s this one cooking channel I watch pretty often. It’s interesting.”

“Well,” Steve says, grunting as he pushes at Bucky’s head in order to sit up tall enough to move the two now-empty plates from the bed and set them on the bedside table. “I’m glad you decided to pick up on a hobby like that, because I’m gonna have you bake another one of these whenever you come over from now on.”

“It’s just pie,” Bucky defends himself. “And there are still leftovers in the kitchen.”

“It’s _divine_ ,” Steve counters firmly. “And those leftovers are gonna get eaten the moment you leave, because I have no self control. So I’m definitely gonna need a new one, preferably tomorrow.”

Bucky snorts. “Sounds like you need to learn how to bake your own damn pies,” he mutters.

“Oh, that would be an exceptionally bad idea,” Steve says. “Last time I tried to cook, I almost burned the place down. Why do you think I own a microwave?”

“I don't know. Popcorn?”

“Don't be silly, popcorn’s made on the stove.”

“I wouldn’t know, I’ve never had any.”

“You’ve never had popcorn?” Steve asks.

“Well, at _some_ point, probably,” Bucky says with an eye roll. “But not that I _remember_.”

“Then that’s settled,” Steve announces. “Next time we watch a movie, we’re making popcorn.”

“You’d abandon your beloved Doritos for me?” Bucky teases. “Really?”

“To see your face when you try salted and buttered popcorn for the first time? Without question.” He smirks. “But we can have popcorn _and_ Doritos, you know.”

“Wow, way to shoot a guy down,” Bucky says.

“Aw,” Steve coos. “What’s the matter, you don’t feel special anymore just because I’m keeping my Doritos?”

“Sometimes I think you like the snacks more than you like me.”

“Hey, not true.”

Bucky flinches when Steve pokes him in the ribs, instinctively pulling his arm in to cover himself. “Don’t poke at me,” he grumbles.

“What? You got a problem with me poking at you?” Steve muses. He does it again, lower this time, and Bucky grunts, slapping his hand away.

“Stop it,” he orders.

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“What, you’re ticklish or something?” Steve asks. He goes in for another poke, but Bucky intercepts him.

“No,” he says, fending Steve off.

“You act pretty damn ticklish to me,” Steve argues.

“Well, even if I were, it’s not like I’d _know,_ remember?”

“Even bigger reason to find out, then.” Steve makes another move, as if he intends to grab for Bucky’s torso with both hands, and Bucky jerks away.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he warns, even though he’s well aware that oh, Steve totally would. He tries to escape, but Steve still manages to get one hand underneath his body and into the crease of his right armpit, right before Bucky traps it there with his own weight as he turns over.

“No!” he gasps, feeling Steve’s fingers wiggle against his skin. “No, Steve, stop! Stop, I— I’m not— Dont—!” The rest of his sentence dissolves in a fit of giggles, just as Steve’s other hand finds his side, and _squeezes._ Bucky makes an attempt to roll out of reach, but Steve’s quicker than he seems. In a flash, he’s got one leg slung over Bucky’s stomach and straddles him across the middle, still with his hands playing over Bucky’s skin.

Throwing Steve off of him would have been easy, of course, but Bucky doesn’t want to do that. He’s scared that he’ll accidentally end up hurting him, and he can feel the control already slipping out of his grip with every spidery wriggle of Steve’s hand. Bucky tries to squirm away, twisting his hips to buck Steve off of him, but Steve doesn’t budge.

Bucky doesn’t have any memories of being ticklish, but then again, he doesn’t have memories regarding a lot of things. Being tickled is somehow an even stranger experience than he had expected. He can’t steel himself against it. The involuntary spasms of his muscles have his body curling in on itself in its instinctive struggle to get away, even as it’s paralyzed by the sensory overload. He can’t take it. It’s too much, he can’t breathe. He’s choking on his own laugher as the tears begin to run from the corner of his eyes, and he can’t _take it._

Then, somehow, he manages to grab hold of Steve’s wrist with his left hand and yank it up and away, right before doing the same to Steve’s other hand with his right. He holds Steve off, gasping for air and wheezing the last giggles out of his system. When he aims a teary-eyed glare at Steve from below, he’s not the slightest surprised to see Steve grinning back down at him.

“Oh, you are _so_ ticklish,” Steve says triumphantly.

Bucky feels his stomach flip at the tone of his voice, but before he can say anything back, the sound of the doorbell ringing comes floating through from the other side of the apartment.  

“You should get that,” he pants. Steve shakes his head with a cheeky tilt of his head.

“They’ll go away,” he says. He makes a lunge for Bucky’s sides, futile, but enough to make Bucky tighten his grip around his wrists. Just in case.

The doorbell rings again, three times in rapid succession, and Steve throws an annoyed look out the bedroom door over his shoulder.

“I don’t think they will,” Bucky tells him pointedly.

Steve purses his lips, but then he loses the tension in his arms and shoulders as he lets them slump with a sigh when the doorbell rings again. Bucky lets him go, and Steve crawls off the bed and wraps the top sheet around his waist with a low huff and a muttered curse.

While he goes to answer the door, Bucky sits up with a lazy stretch of his back, groaning under his breath before standing. As he reaches for his underwear on the floor, the ringing doorbell gets replaced by pounding at the door, and Bucky pauses with a wary frown towards the living room.

“Steve,” he cautions.

“I know,” Steve replies. His voice is tight, and as Bucky stands to yank his shorts on, he hears Steve turn the lock on the door.

There’s a loud slam, and Bucky hears the clang of the safety chain all the way to where he’s standing, followed by a man’s voice shouting. He hears Steve reply, just as hotly, and just as Bucky takes the first stride towards the door, a second, and much louder slam is heard.

It’s like a switch flipping. Instantly, the lazy Sunday leisure is gone, and Bucky can feel his body snap into a fighting stance with a vigor that leaves the gears in his arm singing. By the time he sets his first foot into the other room, every last one of his senses are on high alert.

The scene that meets him as he does is sharp and vivid.

The safety chain is dangling from the wall, ripped off from the force of the door getting kicked in. Steve—still with the sheet around his waist—staggers backwards from the door with his baseball bat in a tight grip by his hip (albeit much too low, and without enough space between him and the doorway to be able to raise it in time to swing) and with his eyes intently focused on the man standing in the open door. All Bucky needs is one look at him to go from hostile vigilance to targeted determination.  

The man is both taller and wider than Steve, towering over him with ease and making a big deal out of it. He’s dressed in khaki colored cargo shorts and a peach polo shirt, with mirror aviators covering his eyes, and what looks like brand new boat shoes on his feet. His hair is blonde and water combed backwards over his head. He’s not very muscular, and obviously spends more time sitting behind a desk than doing any kind of manual labor. He’s visibly sweating by the temples – both from the heat outside, and from the exhaustion of having banged and kicked at the door. His stance is angry and militant, but not trained. There’s absolutely nothing threatening about him at all, even though he obviously wishes there was.  

The man has stepped through the doorway, and he slams the door shut behind him about as hard as he’d slammed it open, just as Bucky enters the room.

The man looks up, but he barely spares Bucky as much as a glance before he turns towards Steve once more. “What the hell is this?” he asks angrily.

“Travis,” Steve says slowly. “Calm down.”

“Like fuck I’m gonna calm down!” Travis yells back. “First you cut my session short, saying you’re not feeling well—”

“Yes, and I gave you your money back.”

“—and then you cancel my appointment to get plowed by this ponytailed _fuck?_ ”

“Hey,” Bucky says, and as Travis turns his mirrored shades his way one more time, his mouth slowly falls open. Bucky doesn’t need to see his actual eyes to know that Travis has spotted his left arm.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

“That’s none of your concern.” Bucky saunters forward, enjoying the way Travis appears to shrink the closer he gets. “What _is_ your concern, however, is that attitude you’re having.”

“Bucky,” Steve says. “I can handle this.”

“He kicked down your door,” Bucky says pointedly.

“I had him on the ropes.”

“Yeah,” Bucky replies. “I know you did.”

“And who are you supposed to be?” Travis asks. His voice only trembles slightly as Bucky comes to a final halt in front of him. “His boyfriend or something?”

“Your worst nightmare if you don’t stop talking,” Bucky warns grimly.

“Look, I don’t know what the fuck your problem is, but I had a—”

The metal of Bucky’s arm gleams and Travis’ voice is roughly cut off with a strangled noise as Bucky’s fingers curl around his neck.

“Bucky!” Steve says sharply.

“It’s alright,” Bucky says calmly. Slowly, he pulls Travis closer, ignoring the way he claws and scratches at the plating of his forearm, and plucks the sunglasses off of Travis’ face to reveal his bug-eyed stare. “Travis and I are just gonna have a little chat.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Steve take a step back, and Travis’s gaze flickers nervously. Bucky flexes his left arm, causing a whirr of the hydraulics, and then Travis gasps as Bucky yanks him forward to hold him an inch away from his face.

“You listen to me,” Bucky growls. “From now on, this place is off limits for you. _Steve_ is off limits for you. You will not call him, or text him, or make any other attempt to contact him whatsoever. If you come near him again, I will hurt you in ways you can’t imagine, do you understand?”

Travis nods, and Bucky smiles coldly. “Good.”

He hesitates, not sure whether he should or not, but then he glances at Steve and decides that he has to. To keep Steve safe, he needs to make sure this guy doesn't go blabbing his mouth the moment he leaves the apartment.

So he turns his eyes back to Travis, and makes sure that he still has his attention, before he speaks again.

“If you tell anyone about this… What happened here, what you saw—”

“I won't!” Travis wheezes. “I won't tell a soul, I swear.”

“Damn right, you're not.” Bucky agrees. “Because if you tell anyone, and I mean _anyone_ —the police, your friends, your family, your fucking _dog—_ I will hunt you down, and I will kill you. There are no safe houses, no money, or social contacts in the world that can hide you from me. You talk, you die.” He lowers his voice to a whisper as he lets his arm zing once more for effect. “Do you understand?”

Again, Travis nods, and when Bucky tightens his grip, he wheezes out a desperate, “Yes!”

“What do you think, Steve?” Bucky asks, raising his voice without taking his eye off the man in his grasp. “Should we let him go?”

He hears Steve step closer, and how he comes to halt beside him.

“Depends,” Steve says flatly, and Travis turns his head to stare at him as Steve continues, “You really think he’ll keep quiet?”

“Hard to say,” Bucky says. He pauses, unsure of how far he should be pushing the situation —both for his and Steve’s sake. “If you want, I could just take care of him right away?”

Travis’ eyes go—if possible—even wider than before.

“Nah,” Steve says. “He’s not worth it. Let him run.”

Bucky opens his hand and Travis staggers backwards, hitting the wall next to the door.

“You should hurry,” Steve points out. “Before I change my mind.”

Bucky glances at him, but Travis is already frantically fumbling for the door handle. He’s in such a hurry, he forgets that the door opens inward, and Bucky almost feels sorry for him as he watches the poor guy try, and repeatedly fail, to escape the scene before eventually succeeding. But only almost.

The second Travis slams the door shut, Steve lets out a slow, shuddering breath as his entire body appears to sag. “Jesus Christ…” he murmurs, turning away. Bucky watches him walk to the kitchen table and snatch up the pack of cigarettes and the lighter there. Hands trembling, Steve takes a cigarette out of the pack. It takes three failed clicks of the lighter, but eventually he manages to get a flame under the end of it. He takes a deep drag, holds it, and then lets it out with a shaky groan.

“Jesus…” he says again. He hoists the sheet higher around his waist as he goes to stand by the window, and gaze out through the blinds.

“Are you alright?” Bucky asks quietly, and Steve looks up. For a moment, his eyes are hard, but then his face softens as a gentle smile stretches across his lips.

 

 

“I’m fine,” he says.

“Are you sure?” Bucky prompts. He takes a slow step closer, suddenly unsure if Steve wants him to. “I didn’t mean to— If you think I crossed the line threatening him, I—”

“Bucky, I’m _fine,_ ” Steve says again. He takes another drag of the cigarette. Then he puts it out on the ashtray sitting in the windowsill, before turning around and walking across the room to wrap his arms around Bucky’s waist. He pulls him close, leaning his head against Bucky’s chest, and sighs.

“I was lucky you were here,” he mumbles against Bucky’s skin. “Or things might’ve gone very differently.”

“You could have taken him,” Bucky tries, even as he smooths his palm over Steve’s hair.

“In my dreams, I could,” Steve replies with a snort. “You saved me.”

“I’ve been told that’s what heroes do,” Bucky says. He leans down and places a gentle kiss on the top of Steve’s head, and immediately, Steve tips his head up, prompting for a kiss on the lips. Bucky gives it to him, relaxing when he feels Steve melt against him with a hum. He can feel Steve smile, and when Steve pulls back to rest his head against Bucky’s shoulder, eyes still closed, the smile lingers.

“Do you wanna go out for dinner with me?”

The question comes out of nowhere, and for a moment it leaves Bucky stunned and blinking, before he frowns.

“You mean, dinner as… a restaurant?” he asks.

“I mean dinner as a date,” Steve clarifies.

“Oh.”

Bucky is pretty sure that’s _not_ how you’re supposed to respond to such a request. Even more so when Steve’s smile fades and gets replaced by a worried frown.

“You don’t want to?” he asks.

“Of course I do, I just…” Bucky looks down, and then towards the door behind him. The safety chain has stopped dangling, but the holes of the screws from where it had been ripped out are still there.

“What?” Steve asks.

“It’s just that… When I heard the door crash, I was convinced that whoever had kicked it in was actually here for me. Not you…”

“So? Does it make a difference?”

“Very much so.” Bucky looks at Steve. “If they’d been looking for me, a simple threat wouldn't have been enough to save the situation. Or you.”

“Good thing he wasn't looking for you then.”

“Not this time,” Bucky says simply, and Steve’s smile fades even further. But then he straightens up and gives Bucky a defiant glare.

“I don’t care,” he says.

“Steve…” Bucky says with a sigh, but Steve cuts him off.

“No,” he says. “You’ve already been a hero today, you don’t get to do this too.”

“Steve, please listen to me. If we do this you could end up getting more than hurt. Alright, you could get _killed._ ”

“This is New York,” Steve counters flatly. “I could get hurt or killed just by walking down the street.”

“But—”

This time, Steve cuts Bucky off by reaching up and tugging him down by the back of his head, and planting his lips on Bucky's in a firm, albeit slightly annoyed kiss.

“Take me out to dinner, Buck,” he whispers. Gently, he kisses the side of Bucky’s throat, down to his shoulder. “Take me on a date.”

Bucky moans under his breath when Steve lets one of his hands slip beneath the waistband of his shorts to squeeze at his ass.

It’s stupid. It’s reckless, and selfish, and he shouldn’t. Even though he’s wanted to take this step for longer than he’d probably realized, he _shouldn’t._ What if something happens? What if HYDRA, or someone else, finds out about them and comes for Steve in order to flush him out?  

But Steve is kissing his skin and grabbing at his body, lips and hands softer and gentler than any touch Bucky can remember having felt. And he wants to say yes; wants it with every love crazed beat of his heart.

“Please, Buck,” Steve begs against Bucky’s left nipple, provoking a shudder. Bucky grits his teeth and groans. Then he nods and moans out loud when Steve’s lips closes around the nub with a light suck.

“Alright,” Bucky breathes. “You win.”

“Of course I do,” Steve muses.

Bucky grabs around Steve’s waist through the sheet as he tips his head back towards the ceiling with another breathless sigh. “So when do we—”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Bucky gulps. His voice gets partially ruined by the teeth suddenly worrying his chest, and he tightens his fingers as he lets them drop to Steve’s hips.

“Tomorrow,” Steve repeats. “Pick me up at six. I wanna go watch a movie before dinner.”

“Fucking punk…”

Bucky pretends not to hear the pleased chuckle Steve makes at that, even though he can feel the breath of it waft over his spitslicked skin. The moan Steve makes when Bucky yanks the sheet off of him a second later, however… Now that’s a different story.

 


	10. 10

****_I can’t believe you agreed to take the guy on a_ date _._

Bucky grunts as the Soldier’s voice comes seeping through his mind. The Soldier is disappointed, he can tell.

 _What were you even thinking?_ the Soldier carries on, ignoring Bucky’s attempt at ignoring him. _You know exactly in how many ways this can go wrong. Just call the guy up and tell him you’ve changed your mind._

“Shut up,” Bucky grumbles.

 _Yeah, leave him alone,_ Barnes cuts in. _He’s got it under control, nothing’s going to happen._

 _He could get spotted,_ the Soldier argues. _Followed. That Rogers is a liability. A weak spot. We’re better off without him._

 _You mean_ you _are?_ Barnes corrects, and the Soldier responds with the mental equivalent of huffing and folding his arms over his chest.

“You two are gonna drive me nuts…” Bucky mutters under his breath. He’s got all of his shirts laid out on the bed, and he’s been trying to decide which one to wear for almost twenty minutes already. It’s still before noon, and there are several hours before he actually needs to get ready for the date, but… As he stands there, looking over his sparse selection of clothes, he realizes there’s one slight problem.

He has nothing good to wear.

It’s stupid. Steve’s already seen him in every single garment he owns, but for some reason Bucky has this insistent thought in the back of his head that wearing those same outfits tonight simply won’t do. He needs _new_ clothes. _Better_ clothes.

The Soldier’s no help, as usual, and Barnes’ only suggestion so far has been to ‘wear something nice’. Between the three of them, none are exactly fashionably inclined, yet Bucky can’t get the idea of needing new clothes out of his head.

He’d tried looking up date outfits on the Internet last night, but had only been discouraged to realize he owned nothing that even resembled the clothes displayed on his screen. The men had all been neat, clean, and sophisticated beyond reason. Just looking at them had made Bucky feel like the least attractive person on the planet…   

After all, this is supposed to be special, and he wants to _look_ special for the occasion. But he’s going to need help… Preferably from someone who knows what the hell they’re doing.

 

/\/\/\

 

Bucky rings the doorbell. Throwing a stealthy glance down the walkway, he sends a silent prayer not to get caught doing this, and then presses the bell again. The seconds tick by, each feeling eternities long, before the lock finally rattles, and the door opens.

The face that appears in the doorway is softer than the last time Bucky had seen it—then again, this time it's not witnessing him dragging someone away by the collar of their shirt, either.

Sharon’s eyes widen when she recognizes him. Bucky expects her to slam the door (or a fist) in his face out of sheer principle, but she doesn’t. She looks suspicious, without a doubt, but the hostility he’d seen in her posture during their last meeting isn’t there anymore.

“Hi?” she asks more than says.

“Hi,” Bucky murmurs back. He looks down at his feet. From the back of his mind both Barnes and the Soldier sternly tells him to straighten up and stop slouching. He does, clearing his throat. “Am I disturbing you?”

She gives him a look. “No,” she says. “Not at all.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, nodding. “Good.” He pauses. He already knows what to say—he’d practiced it all the way over—but to actually get the words past his lips is harder than he had expected. He clears his throat again and forces himself not to look down as he keeps his eyes locked on Sharon’s. “I need your help.”

“My help?” Sharon asks with genuine surprise. “What for?”

Bucky glances down the walkway towards Steve’s front door, and then back at Sharon. “Well,” he starts. “Steve and I, we… I mean, I’m taking him out to dinner. Tonight.”

“Oh?” Sharon says. She sounds intrigued as she leans out of the doorway to look towards Steve’s door as well. “Does _he_ know that?” she asks. “I mean, this isn’t one of those surprise-dates, is it?”

“He knows,” Bucky answers. “He’s picked the restaurant already. I don’t know the neighborhood all that well.”

“I see.”

“Yeah.” Bucky rubs at the back of his neck. “Truth is, I don’t know much about dating at all, and I was sort of hoping… You know, that you might, if you want to, I mean…help me with something?”

“I can try,” Sharon says warily. She looks skeptical still, and Bucky swallows hard as his gaze dips to his feet. Might as well cut straight to the chase.

“I don’t know what to wear,” he blurts out. “Or what to say, or how to act. Steve’s really excited about this and I don’t want to disappoint him by being, well, a sucky date. You and Steve, you… You’re friends, and I figured that, maybe you can help me pick something out that you think he’d, you know…like?”

He dares a glance at Sharon’s face. He expects the same doubtful expression as before, but finds that the tightness around her mouth and eyes has softened. The way she’s looking at him reminds him of the look Steve had given him on the day they’d first met. Bucky’s not sure whether he should consider that a good thing.

“So you need dating advice?” Sharon asks.

“And new clothes,” Bucky adds with mumble.

“What, that’s it?”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to help if you’re busy,” he says quickly. “Or if you’re not feeling like it.”

“Don’t be silly,” Sharon says. She leans back as she reaches behind the partially open door, and Bucky hears the quiet jangle of keys as she adds, “We’ll take my car.”

“Car?” Bucky asks, confused.

“You said you need clothes, right?” Sharon asks pointedly. “That means shopping.”

Bucky moves back to give Sharon enough room to step outside and lock the door, and before he knows it, he’s following her down the stairs and towards the building’s parking lot.

Coming here, he’d been hoping for some pointers at most. To have Sharon actually come _with_ him to - by the looks of things - physically guide him through the experience of preparing for a date, was the last thing he’d expected.

Sharon leads him past the three closest cars in the parking lot, and up to a white Chevrolet Cruze; from the looks of it, it’s no more than a year old.

“Nice car,” Bucky comments when Sharon opens the driver’s side door to slide behind the wheel.

“Thanks,” she replies nonchalantly, watching Bucky do the same on the other side of the car. “I bought it with money I earned off the drug cartel I run on weekends.”

Bucky freezes with his hand on the seat belt, just for a moment, before he throws a wary glance her way. She looks back in silence, her face completely blank before she rolls her eyes at him with an exasperated sigh.

“Relax,” she berates him. “I’m _kidding._ ”

Bucky swallows and forces himself to exhale discreetly.

“Steve told me, you know,” she says. “About how you thought I was a drug dealer.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky apologises. “I saw you give him something in exchange for money and jumped to conclusions. I never meant—”

“Hey, hey, don’t worry about it,” Sharon cuts him off with a wave of her hand. “You were just looking out for him. To be honest, that’s more concern than any of the guys he’s hung with in the past has shown.”

“Oh,” Bucky mumbles. “Has he, I mean… Has there been a lot of them?”

Sharon glances his way, and then sighs. “Enough to make me feel sorry for him,” she says. “And for him to distance himself. I don’t think he’s been on a date for at least three years—not due to lack of offers, mind you. Although, most of those offers were from douchebags thinking they’d get serviced for free if they paid for a few drinks. Assholes…”

Bucky nods as he makes an effort not to let it show how accused her words make him feel.

What if that’s what Steve will think of him if Bucky doesn’t get this date thing right? That Bucky’s just another jerk trying to get into his pants without having to pay for it?

He can feel Sharon’s eyes on him, and from the corner of his eye he sees her tilt her head as she regards him in silence for a few seconds.

“You know…” she says, “we haven’t really spoken before now, but I can see why he likes you.”

“You can?” Bucky asks. He doesn't really believe her, but Sharon just nods.

“Yeah,” she says. “I mean, guys like you are in short supply, these days.”

Ducking his head, Bucky looks down at his hands. “I’m not that special,” he murmurs while tracing the leather seams of his gloved hands. He can feel Sharon’s eyes on him, and when it becomes clear that she’s waiting for him to look back, the glance he gives her is hesitant and guarded.

“You went to a complete stranger for help, because you wanted to give someone the perfect date,” Sharon says solemnly. “You’re special, alright.”

Bucky can’t help but turn away again. As Sharon tuns the key in the ignition, he keeps his eyes securely fastened on his hands in his lap, fighting down the goofy smile that threatens to take over his face. He doesn’t need Barnes to tell him that Sharon’s approval _means_ something—the jubilant swirl in the pit of his stomach does that well enough.

Sharon asks him questions while they drive, like what kind of a date he’s got planned, if they’re just going out for dinner, if it’s a fancy or casual date. Bucky answers what he can, and somehow Sharon manages to puzzle together enough from his replies to have formed a strategy once they reach their destination.

Sharon takes him to what she swears is the best mall for ‘when you don’t know exactly what you need, but know that you need _something.’_ As they leave the car to enter the building, Bucky realizes that he’s more nervous than he’s been in a very long time.

It’s a Monday, and so there aren’t that many people out and about. At least not as many as Bucky suspects there would’ve been on a weekend. Sharon leads him through the first floor, up the escalators. She talks about clothes, asking him if he has any colors he prefers, and Bucky just shrugs, saying that he really doesn’t know.

The first store she takes him too is…okay, for lack of a better word. However, the clothes are plain and dull, too safe. They’re not giving him the sense of being particularly special, and none of them catches Bucky’s attention well enough for him to even want to try them on. Sharon doesn’t take offense, and simply takes him to another store.

The second place, Bucky doesn’t even enter. Sharon laughs at what he suspects is the mix of scandalized and horrified expression on his face when he sees what the clothes look like. There are holes and frayed seams on every single garment, and the price tags in the display window make Bucky want to physically grab hold of his money to make sure he’s not about to get charged simply for _looking_ at them.

“Why would anyone pay for torn up clothes?” he asks, staring at the display over his shoulder as they walk away. Sharon just shakes her head.

“Trends,” she says simply. “I’ve never understood it myself. Might be habits from serving talking, but broken equipment was never worth anything out in the field. I don’t see why people would throw away money on something that’s already broken.”

“It’s stupid,” Bucky agrees sullenly, and Sharon laughs again.

She has a nice laugh.

Bucky finds that he likes it.

Eventually, they find a store that not only has clothes that are in one piece, but also a sense of style that Bucky can agree with. Sharon helps him pick out a variety of garments, mixing and matching until Bucky has several complete outfits to try on. However, it’s not before Sharon starts walking him towards the changing room that he realizes that she expects to see him _model_ the different outfits as well.

He looks down at the clothes in his hands, gaze lingering on the two shirts with short sleeves.

“Hey,” Sharon says. Her voice is soft, and nothing like the business-like tone she’d been using up until now. It shakes Bucky out of his thoughts as he looks up at her.

“It’s okay,” Sharon assures him.

Bucky frowns. But then Sharon looks to his left arm—deliberately, and undoubtedly so—and puts a hand on his right shoulder.

“Steve told me,” she says. For a second, Bucky’s stomach drops, right before she continues, “About your prosthetic.”

Prosthetic?

He looks at the sleeve of his jacket, and then back at her.

“It’s okay,” she says again. She lowers her voice as she gives his shoulder a comforting squeeze. “You’re not the first amputee I’ve met. And I know some wounds can be tough, not just physically.”

Bucky nods, and swallows. He thinks he understands what Steve's said. And what Sharon's assumed. “Did he… Did he tell you how I got it?”

“No,” Sharon says. “And I don’t need to know. He just told me you got hurt. And that you’re keeping the prosthetic covered because you’re uncomfortable showing it in public. And that you don’t like people touching it.”

Bucky nods. He looks at the sleeves of the shirts again, and Sharon follows his gaze.

“You don’t have to try on anything you think you’d be uncomfortable in,” she says. “But I figured, maybe this could be a chance for you to test out something new? Just for yourself?”

“Maybe,” Bucky murmurs. He feels Sharon give his shoulder another squeeze, and then a light pat before letting go.

“You’ll look great,” she promises, holding open the curtain to the cubicle for him. “Now get a move on. I’ll be out here if you wanna show me the results.”

And just like that, Bucky finds himself face to face with his own, somewhat stunned reflection inside the dressing room. He looks at the bundle of clothes in his arms, and then carefully sets them aside on the little chair by the mirror.

 _This is dumb,_ the Soldier declares sullenly.

 _Is not,_ Bucky replies as he pulls his henley over his head.

 _Why are you putting so much effort into this? It’s just_ one _guy._

 _Because he’s in_ love _, you tactless oaf,_ Barnes cuts in, and Bucky's ears immediately heat up as he begins to blush.

 _Well, love_ is _dumb, so that would explain it,_ the Soldier quips. _Besides, these clothes are the most exposing things she could’ve possibly picked out for him. Bright colors and flimsy fabric? People are gonna see him coming from miles away, and he won’t even have the advantage of proper gear._

 _I’m going on a date,_ Bucky reminds them. _Not a mission._

 _Exactly,_ Barnes agrees. Bucky feels like he’s smirking.

“Go away, both of you,” he mutters. “This is tricky enough as it is without having you two bickering inside my head.”

He pushes the two ghosts away at the same time as he puts his left boot up against the chair to untie it. The Soldier mutters something that sounds like Russian at him, but Bucky ignores him.

He goes through the bottoms first. The first pair of jeans are uncomfortable—nice, but far too snug around the areas that shouldn’t be—but the second pair he loves. They’re black, with a hint of having been what the label refers to as ‘stone washed’. They’re comfortable, and Bucky keeps them on as he turns to the shirts.

First up are the short sleeved button-downs, but he quickly decides that no, they’re not really for him. At least not yet. Sharon doesn’t question him when he informs her of his decision through the curtain, and he quickly moves on to the other garments instead.

In the end, he settles for the black jeans, a silver buckled belt, and a light blue dress shirt. He contemplates pulling his gloves back on before showing Sharon what he picked out, but doesn’t. Sharon gives his metal fingers a single casual glance when he pulls the curtain away, but she doesn’t comment on them.

“Look at you,” she says instead, eyeing him up and down with an impressed tilt of her head. “My, Steve’s gonna get heat stroke just sitting at the same table, poor guy.”

“Does it work?” Bucky asks hesitantly as he runs his hands down the front of the shirt, and Sharon smiles as she reaches up and carefully undoes the top button to spread his collar a bit wider.

“Oh, it works,” she promises. “You’re gonna have him begging for the tab before you’ve even finished your appetizers.”

“And that’s…good?” Bucky guesses.

“That’s very good,” Sharon agrees. She looks at his shirt. “Have you considered wearing this with rolled up sleeves?”

“No,” Bucky answers truthfully.

“It would look good,” she says. She’s fishing, and Bucky knows it.

“It would also be very exposing,” he counters.

“Maybe,” she says, meeting his eye. “But I don’t think Steve would mind, do you?”

Bucky shuts his mouth.

_I think it’s pretty, you know._

No, Steve wouldn’t mind. At all.

Sharon gives him a long look. Then she beckons him to come closer, and takes a gentle hold around his right arm.

“Here,” she says, already reaching for the cuff. “I’ll show you.”

She teaches him the proper way to fold and turn his sleeves into quarter sleeves, should he want to. After some initial hesitation, Bucky does up the left one as well, and as he throws a glance at the mirror, he finds to his surprise that he actually likes the way it looks. It does show off the plating on his forearm, but somehow it’s not as bad as he had thought it would be.

It’s the star that’s the worst, really. The brand they put on him.

As long as that stays covered, he might actually be able to get used to wearing things like this more often.

Sharon asks him if he owns any accessories. Since Bucky apparently looks like a live question mark in response, she helps him pick out a pair of dark aviators, as well as a braided brown leather bracelet from a rack by the register. She also advises him to wear a pair of dark brown shoes to complete the summer time look, and even though Bucky’s not sure how much of a difference that actually makes, he doesn’t object when they stop by a shoe store on the way back to the car to get him a pair of brown leather boots.

They’re not as comfortable as his old ones had been, and will most likely wear out a lot sooner as well, but they look good. In a way, Bucky feels more emotional about the shoes than he had regarding his rolled up sleeves. His days of wearing strictly practical gear are finally over, and he finds that this new look of his—as recent and different as it may be—actually feels…familiar in a way, the more the thinks about it.

Maybe he should buy more dress shirts?

Maybe, if he asks, Steve will help him pick some out?

It’s a nice thought. A _domestic_ thought, and for some reason it’s not as scary as he had thought it’d be.

As they make their way back through the mall, shopping successfully managed, Sharon suddenly reaches out and gives Bucky’s sleeve a light tug. When he turns to look, she nods towards one of the nearby stores.

“You wanna stop for ice cream?”

Bucky looks towards the store in question, noting the lit up sign of an ice cream cone that's hanging above the line of people out front. He has a vague memory of knowing what one of those cones taste like, but he can’t remember whether it was a taste he’d liked or not. But Sharon obviously wants ice cream, and so he shrugs, allowing himself to get pulled in the direction of the store without a fight.

The children already standing in line with their parents seem enthusiastic enough about the ice cream to spark his interest further. The boy in front of them proudly declares that he’s going to get at least three full scoops, even though his father insists he can only have one. It turns into a compromise, and the boy walks off with two scoops of ice cream in a cup rather than a cone, and then, suddenly, it’s their turn.

Bucky lets Sharon pick hers first, giving him time to mull over which of the mysterious flavors to go with for himself. Some are pretty self explanatory, like strawberry, vanilla, chocolate, and any others that feature some kind of fruit. Then there are things like rocky road, bubblegum, and even birthday cake flavor. Bucky doesn’t get the point of turning a birthday cake into ice cream—it seems easier to simply buy a cake in the first place if that’s what you want—but then his eyes catch on something that instantly has him feeling less confused.

The coffee ice cream doesn’t taste exactly like regular coffee, but it’s _good._ So far, Bucky’s not been all too fond of overly sweet things, but this he just might be able to get used to. Sharon had insisted he try the French vanilla flavor along with the coffee one, so he had ended up getting three scoops in total; two coffee, and one vanilla. Turns out the combination is more than satisfactory, and with the warm weather, it’s actually more appealing than a hot cup of regular coffee.

Sharon had picked some kind of coconut-caramel mix, along with a chocolate flavor which apparently contains pieces of actual brownies. She offers Bucky a taste, and even though the texture of frozen brownie feels weird on his tongue, it doesn’t taste bad. The coconut flavor is actually pretty good.

There’s an empty bench near the escalators with a view of the busy floor below, and that’s where they take a seat.

“So,” Sharon says around her treat. “You nervous?”

Bucky swallows his mouthful of ice cream, and nods. “Yeah,” he confesses. “I’m still worried that I’m gonna find a way to fuck it up somehow.”

“Why?” she asks. “I mean, you guys already hang out as it is. It’s not like you’re meeting a total stranger.”

“I guess not, but… I don’t know, I’m just scared that Steve’s gonna expect…something different.”

Sharon nods. “I don’t think you have to worry about that,” she offers. “Steve wouldn’t have agreed to go on a date with you if he actually wanted something, or someone, different.”

“Maybe not,” Bucky says. He knows he doesn’t sound like he believes it.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve seen him this happy before.” Sharon gives Bucky’s knee a light nudge. “You’re good for him.”

“I think he’s the one who’s good for me,” Bucky argues. “Not the other way around.”

“One doesn’t have to exclude the other,” Sharon says wisely. “As long as the two of you are happy. You are happy, right?”

“I think so,” Bucky admits. “I mean, I— I don’t really know what happy means, exactly? I just know that when I’m with him things are better than when I’m alone. Brighter. Lighter.”

“That sounds like happy to me.”

Bucky nods, and takes another lick of his ice cream. It’s already begun to melt, and he gives the cone a spin to swipe up the threatening blobs of coffee flavored ice cream that have begun to trickle down the sides towards his fingers. It’s not until he does that he realizes his gloves are still tucked away inside the pocket of his jacket. And surprisingly enough he doesn’t care.

“Steve’s an idiot, you know,” Sharon says suddenly. The declaration catches Bucky off guard as he looks up from the treat in his hand, and Sharon sighs.

“I don’t mean that he’s dumb, or unintelligent,” she clarifies. “But he’s… Sometimes, he just doesn’t _think._ ” She quickly licks off the dab of ice cream that’s threatening to spill over the side of her cone, before shaking her head with another sigh. “He thinks he can save the entire world, as long as he really puts his mind to it. It’s an admirable thing, really. It’s just that most of the time he’s so busy trying to save everyone else that he doesn’t stop to think about saving himself.” She looks at Bucky. “We all need our heroes. They can be big, or small, miraculous or mundane. Some to save us, and others just to help us pull our shit together for long enough to save ourselves.”

“He saved you,” Bucky recalls. Sharon smiles, and nods.

“He did. I’ve been trying to repay the favor, but…to be honest, I don't think I’m the right kind of hero for him.”

Bucky meets her gaze, and this time when Sharon smiles at him, he smiles back.

They finish their ice cream. Returning to the car, Bucky puts his bags of purchases into the backseat, before getting in next to Sharon, who’s already got the engine running.

“Feeling more confident?” she asks.

“A little,” he replies. “Still nervous, though.”

“Hey, being nervous just means you care. It would be worse if you didn’t feel anything.”

“Huh.” He glances at her. “You’re not gonna tell Steve about this, right?”

“And ruin the surprise? Not in a million years.”

“No, I mean, like, afterwards,” Bucky clarifies. “I don’t want him to think I couldn’t be bothered doing these things myself.”

“I don’t think he’d see it that way,” Sharon says. “In fact, I think knowing you made such an effort would make him very happy.”

“You really think so?”

“I’m positive.”

Giving him a bright smile, Sharon pulls out of the parking space, and navigates onto the road. They don’t speak much during the drive back, but Bucky doesn’t mind. The music from the radio is light and upbeat, and the notes resonate inside his chest to chase the lingering worries of his morning away.

Suddenly, being nervous doesn’t feel so bad.

 


	11. 11

****Bucky has enough time to grab a quick shower once he gets back to the motel. Knowing that he’s in a hurry actually makes it easier to ignore the weight in his gut as he steps under the stream of water. Nonetheless, he doesn’t linger, and he keeps the water freezing cold just to hold the memories at bay long enough for him to rinse the shampoo out of his hair. Like always, the thought of Steve helps calm him down. It makes his chest feel less cramped, and makes his vision clearer. He still shakes, and he still hates it, but it's not as bad as it could be. Once he's done, he's glad to be able to wrap a towel around himself as he steps out to dig his new clothes out of the plastic bags on the bed.

He double checks to make sure he’s got all the price tags cut off before putting the clothes on. The jeans are comfy, and the light shirt feels cool against his skin in a way none of his regular t-shirts have.

Bucky likes it.  

He mentally goes through the check list one more time, starting with the obvious—like clothes, shoes, hair, deodorant—and ends it with his new aviators and bracelet. Looking in the mirror afterwards, he almost doesn’t recognize himself, but in a good way. He looks…handsome. Normal. Even with the rolled up sleeves, his metal arm comes through as a second thought rather than an eyecatching presence. Which is something Bucky’s immensely grateful for.

He doesn’t own a wallet—he really ought to buy one, though—so he simply puts his cash in his pocket like he usually does. Then, he throws a final look at himself in the mirror, and heads out.

There’s a flower shop on the route to Steve’s apartment where Bucky stops. There is no line, which gives him more time than he had originally calculated. The shop assistant is a chipper older lady, and when Bucky asks for help to pick out something suitable for a first date, she appears more than happy to help.

Barnes has been yelling inside his head all day about red roses, so Bucky is both confused and worried when the woman offers him some kind of yellow, spidery thing with an expectant look.

Bucky might not be a flower expert, but even _he_ knows that the monstrosity currently aimed at his face is no rose.

“Uh…it’s nice,” Bucky answers truthfully when asked what he thinks.

“You don’t look impressed,” the woman comments. She doesn’t look or sound offended as she says it, however, so Bucky decides to stick to the truth.

“I thought— I was told roses were better for dates,” he explains, scratching at his neck. The woman smiles.

“They _are_ very classic,” she agrees. “But they’re also a bit antiquated in this day and age. There are so many beautiful flowers to choose from, going with the rose on the first date could easily make it look like you took the easy way out.”

“Oh.” Bucky blanches. “That’s not what I want.”

“I thought so,” the lady says. “But don’t worry, we’ll find you the perfect alternative. Let’s start with you telling me about this date of yours. Have you known each other for a long time?”

“A few months,” Bucky says. “We started out as…business partners.”

“Tell you what, that sounds like a book I read once,” the lady says enthusiastically. Bucky is pretty convinced that his and Steve’s story is nothing like the ones this woman might possibly have stored away in her bookshelf. Then again, given these new times, he might also be mistaken.

He watches the lady turn to the cabinet behind the register to trace the different containers of cut flowers with her finger. “Have you been seeing each other as friends up until now?”

“I guess you can call it that,” Bucky mumbles. The lady doesn’t pay his bashful tone any attention, and plucks a flower with a plush-looking pink bud at the top from one of the buckets.

“What about a peony?” she asks as she holds the flower out. “They’re considered very romantic.”

“Isn’t it a bit small?” Bucky asks with a skeptical look at the barren stalk in her hand.

“It’s just a bud, dear,” the lady says. “When it blooms, it can grow to be about the size of your head if you treat it right.”

Bucky nods, admittedly impressed. It’s not a rose like Barnes had wanted, but the idea of a big flower is indeed appealing. Especially if it’s concealed within such an inconspicuous form. Sort of like Steve himself.

In the end, the lady helps him put together a little arrangement of the one pink peony bud, some green myrtle leaves, and a single stem of white Astilbe flowers (for height, as the lady puts it). She wraps it all up in a sheet of silky tissue paper, and finishes up by tying a strand of jute string around the stems.

She asks him if he wants a card. Bucky says no. It doesn’t appear to be a requirement, and he wouldn’t know what to put on a card, even if he did get one. She also gives him the tip to water the flowers sparsely to make the peony bud open slower. Then Bucky pays for the flowers, and the lady hands them over the counter for him to take.

Holding a bouquet of flowers feels strange. It’s nothing like grasping the stock of a gun, or the handle of a blade. Doing so makes it look like he’s getting ready to bash the poor woman over the head with it, and he quickly adjusts his grip into something less threatening. It’s hard not to feel awkward as he walks out the door of the shop, torn between wanting to let the bouquet dangle haplessly by his side, or hold it against his chest, like some sort of blushing bride. The discomfort remains the entire way to his destination, and he’s genuinely grateful for not having accidentally done anything to ruin the flower arrangement by the time he reaches Steve’s building.

As he rings the doorbell, however, he’s suddenly struck by nerves. The flowers in his hand become secondary as his mind starts going through other, far more concerning thoughts.

Like, what if the door opens, and it turns out Steve’s not dressed anything like Bucky is? What if he’s all casual in shorts, and a t-shirt, and…sandals? What if Bucky’s got the wrong date, and it’s not actually today? Or what if it _is_ today, and he’s gotten the time wrong? What if he’s late?

What if Steve doesn’t like the flowers…?

Bucky’s not left with much time to worry, however, because the lock’s already rattling, and a second later, Steve opens the door.

“Right on time, as always,” he greets cheerfully. “Really, you’re more punctual than an actual clo—”

Steve’s voice falters and dies before he can finish his own sentence. His jaw goes slack, and his eyes widen as they land on Bucky’s face, only to slowly trail down the front of his chest, all the way to his feet.

“What?” Bucky anxiously pushes his shades up to perch them on his head, but Steve just shakes his head.

“Nothing,” he says hoarsely. “You just… Damn.” He licks his lips and huffs out a dazed laugh. “You look good, is all.”

“Thanks,” Bucky offers as he gestures to Steve’s clothes. “Uh, you too.”

It’s true. Steve is dressed in a pair of dark blue trousers, and a plaid button up shirt in subtly faded reds, whites, and blues. A brown belt sits snug around his waist, matching his leather shoes.

He looks perfect.

Steve ducks his head with a shy smile at Bucky’s compliment, and as his gaze drops to Bucky’s side, Bucky remembers the bouquet.

“I got you these,” he says, holding the flowers out, and again, Steve gives that same adorable laugh as he reaches out and takes the bouquet out of Bucky’s hand. He lifts the flowers to his face and drags in a deep breath through his nose.

“They’re beautiful, Buck,” he says. “Thank you.”

There’s a moment where they just stand there, looking at each other. Bucky feels like he should say something, but he can’t come up with anything that doesn’t sound too obvious or stupid. Like how bright Steve’s eyes are, or how much Bucky would like to kiss him right now.

Then suddenly Steve clears his throat as he points to the kitchen counter over his shoulder. “I’m just gonna go put these in some water,” he says.

“Not too much water,” Bucky warns, before adding a hasty, “The lady at the store said it’ll be prettier if the flower blooms slowly,” when Steve gives him a quizzical look.  

“Noted,” Steve says. He smiles and gestures to the kitchen again, backing away from the door. “This’ll only take a second, I promise.”

“I’ll wait.”

“You better,” Steve teases and smirks at Bucky over his shoulder as he turns away.

He is quick about it, though, Bucky has to give him that.

Before long, they’re walking down the street, having decided to take advantage of the nice weather and make their way to the restaurant on foot. The sun is warm, the breeze light, and after a few blocks Steve reaches out and nestles his fingers between the ones of Bucky’s right hand. He gives them an affectionate squeeze that makes Bucky smile in spite of himself, and as Bucky returns the squeeze, he also gives the back of Steve’s hand a tender swipe of his thumb.

They spend the rest of the way holding hands.

The restaurant Steve picked out is Italian. Not one of those clichéd places with red and white checkered tablecloths that have a bunch of breadsticks in a jar for their centerpiece. It’s nice, modern, with a calm, laid back atmosphere that even Bucky finds pleasant.  

“I have to admit,” he says once they’ve been shown to their table, “when you said you knew the perfect place, I thought you’d go for something French.”

Steve chuckles as he sits down in his seat. He sends Bucky a wink. “Nah. French food is best enjoyed in France, I’ve heard.”

“What even counts as French food?” Bucky asks. “All I’ve ever heard about are wine, baguettes, and snails.”

“I believe that would be your prejudice talking,” Steve cautions with a smirk. “Although, yeah, the wine is definitely a thing. The escargot on the other hand I think only got famous because so many people found it strange.”

“It doesn’t sound very appetizing,” Bucky agrees.

“You really won’t know, unless you try,” Steve counters. In return, Bucky makes a face that probably tells Steve more about his thoughts on eating something like that than his entire vocabulary could as Bucky turns his attention to the menu. He’s grateful when he finds it substantially lacking in molluscs.

It feels strange, sitting out in the open like this. His arm is exposed, there are at least a dozen people around them, he’s even got his back to the door, and yet, he’s not bothered by any of it. Not like he used to be, anyway.

Thinking about it makes him realize with a slight start how much about him has changed since Washington; the man that had crawled out of the Potomac river really is gone. There are traces of him still, yes, but like the scars on his body, they’re pale and faded. Nothing but ghosts of the pain they’d once inflicted.

It’s because of Steve. Bucky had surely been able to survive on his own—maybe even find himself a job, and build a new life, somewhere else—but it’s Steve that’s helped him become truly human again. It’s Steve who relaxes him when he’s about to crawl out of his skin with paranoia. Steve who makes him smile when he wants nothing more than to cry, and it’s Steve who makes him feel like he’s actually in _control_ of his own mind.

Even today, Barnes—as enthusiastic as he had been about Bucky going on a date—has done nothing but cheer him on. And the Soldier, who normally won’t shut up about how foolish Bucky is for _feeling_ anything, hasn’t uttered more than a few words. In fact, not counting the short outburst from this morning, Bucky hasn’t heard the Soldier speak once. He hadn’t even thought about it, being so busy getting everything ready.

And looking back, Bucky realizes that the Soldier has actually been unusually quiet for quite some time now. Ever since that afternoon when Bucky had shared the few truths he’d managed to speak of regarding his past with Steve. How long ago had that been? A week? Two? A month?

It doesn’t really matter.

All that matters is Steve; Steve, with his plaid shirt, and deep blue eyes, who silently moves his lips as he reads the menu across from Bucky, most likely without even realizing it. Steve, and the adorable way he frowns ever so often when strands of his hair shift to fall into his eyes, and how he just as stubbornly keep brushing them away.

Needless to say, the Soldier’s presence isn’t missed.

Steve suggests they start with appetizers, and Bucky gives him free rein to pick something from the menu for them both. The result is a serving of several toasted bruschettas with sundried tomatoes, mozzarella, garlic, fresh basil, all dressed in olive oil, and a dash of vinegar.

It’s delicious. Steve looks smug when Bucky asks if he can have the last piece, and even more pleased with himself when he lets Bucky have it. Bucky’s convinced that they could’ve left the restaurant having eaten only that one course and felt more than satisfied with their visit, but there’s still more to be had.

Steve had ordered pasta with chicken breast—also with sundried tomatoes, because Steve loves them, apparently—served on a bed of parmesan cheese and pesto, with a side salad. Bucky on his end had gone for a beef tenderloin steak with roasted potatoes, zucchini, and chanterelles sauce; mostly because he’s never had either before, and has no idea what he’s doing.

He’s not disappointed.

The combination of flavors is like nothing Bucky can ever recall having tasted before, but he loves it. Compared to protein bars and military rations, he’s just been handed heaven on a plate, and he intends to savor every last bite of it.

He tells Steve as much, and Steve’s immediate response is to smile and offer him a piece of his chicken from the tip of his fork. Bucky happily leans across the table to accept it, and is delighted to find that it’s just as good, but also disheartened that both etiquette and his stomach says he can’t order a second main course for himself.

Returning the favor, Bucky cuts off a piece of his steak and holds it out on his fork for Steve to take. Steve does, and Bucky watches him close his lips around the prongs and pull the meat off the fork with a satisfied hum.

Bucky can’t recall having ever fed another person before, for whatever reason, but as he does it, he can’t deny that there’s something about it that he finds…endearing. At the same time it makes him feel pretty darn silly.

Steve doesn’t seem to mind one bit, though, so it can’t be too dumb. Bucky watches him roll up some of the pasta on his fork and put it in his mouth, slender fingers perched along the handle of the silverware in his hands. God, how Bucky loves those hands…

He doesn’t realize that he’s staring until Steve suddenly looks up and snorts out an embarrassed laugh and reaches for his wine glass.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Do I have something stuck in my teeth?”

“No,” Bucky says quickly. “I was just… I was just thinking of how good you look.”

Again, Steve snorts while bringing his glass to his mouth. “You’re one to talk,” he mutters. He takes a sip of his drink, and then puts the glass down with a nod towards Bucky’s chest. “You look like a frickin’ movie star in that outfit.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says bashfully. “Although, I can’t really take credit. I, uh, had some help picking it out.” He glances at Steve. “Sharon says hi, by the way.”

For a split second, Steve freezes as he lifts his gaze to look at Bucky’s face. “You and Sharon went shopping?” he asks, flabbergasted.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. As a clarification he also adds, “We had ice cream.”

“You had ice cream,” Steve repeats. He sounds like he’s just been told Bucky and Sharon had briefly joined the circus, but then his smile widens, and he laughs. “That’s awesome. I mean… Sharon’s an angel, but she doesn’t exactly open up easily. How the hell did you two end up buying clothes together?”

“I asked her,” Bucky replies simply. “She said yes.”

“How come you wanted to go shopping with her?” Steve asks, curious now. “It’s great that you get along, of course, I’m just confused. I mean… You guys didn’t exactly get a good first impression of each other.”

“An understatement,” Bucky agrees with a huff. “I think she was pretty surprised to see me as well.”

“I bet,” Steve muses.

“I asked her not to say anything to you about it. Like, I didn’t want you to think I couldn’t be bothered with doing it myself.”

“I’d never,” Steve objects.

“Yeah, I know…” Bucky mumbles. “Truth is, I— I just wanted to make sure I got it right. Technically, this is my first date, after all…”

At that, Steve chuckles. He twirls his fork into the pasta on his plate, seemingly nonchalantly, but the glance he gives Bucky across the table is shy. “Well,” he says softly, “so far, it’s been my best. If that helps?”

Bucky feels something rub up against his shin, and realizes that it’s the top of Steve’s shoe. Gently, Bucky stretches his own leg out to press back against Steve in silence, and feels a rush of warmth fill up his insides when Steve smiles at him. He feels like they might as well have just shared a kiss, right there in public, and it’s making his insides go all kinds of warm and fluffy.

After they’ve filled up on their main courses, it’s time for dessert. They only order one to share, however. They’re both pretty full, but apparently also far too stubborn to give up a three course dinner after only two thirds.

The waiter arrives with two spoons and a large tulip glass. Inside the glass are two puff pastry cream horns, filled with cream, and drizzled with fresh raspberries and powdered sugar.

The moment Bucky gets a taste of the dessert, he forgets about how stuffed he already is. The puff pastry melts in his mouth, and the berries explode on his tongue. It’s the best damn dessert he’s ever had, and he makes a resolution before he’s halfway through his serving that he’ll learn how to bake these if it’s the last thing he does.

After they’re done, Bucky is grateful that they still have a good forty-five minutes before the movie starts. He can’t recall ever having been this full, and knowing that they won’t have to rush to the movie theatre, but can take their time walking there, is a relief beyond sensation.

The evening is warm, with the lingering heat of the sun rising from the pavement. As they exit the restaurant, Bucky gingerly reaches out to brush his fingers against the back of Steve’s hand, and Steve immediately turns his hand over, and takes a hold of Bucky’s own. They walk to the theatre, holding hands, and Bucky feels like he’s just received some sort of a dating achievement for initiating it. Or asking Steve to initiate it. He’s not sure how it works.

Steve buys them popcorn at the theatre, and as he turns away from the counter with the snacks in his hand, Bucky raises a skeptical eyebrow at him.

“Really?” he asks. “ _More_ food?”

“It’s just a small cup,” Steve defends himself. “Besides, you can’t go to the movies without popcorn, those are the rules.”

He looks dead serious as he says it, and Bucky decides that he’s probably better off not arguing with him. And the popcorn smells good, too.

They’re watching an action comedy. Bucky has no idea what it’s about, or anything about the actors that are in it. But Steve’s clearly excited, and that usually means that Bucky’s about to experience something good.

Plenty of people seem to share that opinion, as the seats quickly fill up around them. Bucky’s not too crazy about having strangers sitting so close to him— or behind him for that matter—but once the lights dim down, he immediately feels a lot better about it. The paranoia is still there, but at least he’s at a point where he knows that’s all it is. Sitting there, holding Steve’s hand, he finally feels _normal_. Just a guy. On a date. With a guy who’s right now holding a piece of popcorn to Bucky’s mouth, urging him to eat it. Bucky obediently opens up and has a taste, while Steve patiently awaits his verdict.

“They’re good,” Bucky says, once he’s swallowed. “But I liked the ones we made on the stove at your place better.”

“That’s a filthy lie, and you know it,” Steve says. Then he leans in and kisses Bucky on the lips, just as the commercials stops, and the theatre goes dark in preparation for the actual movie.

It’s a good movie. There’s action, suspense, funny jokes, attractive actors, and an intriguing plot. However, focusing on the story turns out to be a lot harder for Bucky than expected.

They’re less than half an hour in, and Steve is being a goddamn _punk._

He starts by letting go of Bucky’s hand under the guise of scratching an itch at his neck, and ends up putting his hand back on top of Bucky’s knee. From there, it doesn’t take long after the first implied sexual content on screen, before Steve starts making lazy circles over Bucky’s thigh, moving higher and higher in a ruthless tease with each nonchalant swirl.

At first, Bucky thinks it’s unintentional.

He’s wrong.

When the two main characters get locked into a closet together while hiding from the bad guy, Steve’s fingers make a dip towards the inside of Bucky’s knee. As it becomes apparent that the narrow quarters aren’t the only thing in the scene that’s cramped, Steve inches his hand up, closer and closer to Bucky’s crotch. However, just as Steve’s about to reach his goal, Bucky calmly reaches down and grabs him by the wrist, at the same time as he leans his head against Steve’s shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he murmurs without taking his eyes off the screen.

“I’m enjoying a good movie,” Steve replies under his breath. “What are you doing?”

“Keeping you decent, it seems.”

“C’mon, I’m just having a little fun,” Steve whispers. He wiggles his fingers in Bucky’s grip. “It’s not like I was gonna do much.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that?”

“Well, not _here,_ ” Steve scoffs. “But I mean… There are plenty of things we could do _after._ ”

Bucky turns his head away from the movie to meet Steve’s gaze. Steve is wearing an expression that Bucky’s come to grow intimately familiar with, and Bucky feels his cock twitch inside his jeans in spite of their very public situation.

“Watch the movie,” he whispers hoarsely. The way Steve grins before turning his attention back to the screen, however, doesn’t exactly make Bucky relax.

It all goes downhill regarding his self control from there. Every move Steve makes after that, has Bucky tensing up like a steel spring. Steve doesn’t touch him again, even though he goes back to holding his hand, but knowing that Steve _might_ is enough. As is the surprising realization that Bucky actually wouldn’t mind, even if he did.

He knows that they can’t do anything now. Not in here, during the movie, with all the people around. But _after._ _After_ the movie’s done, and they’re alone. When Bucky has Steve to himself, and they can kiss, and touch, and moan without anyone hearing them. When he can pay Steve back for being such a diabolical little tease.

Ironically enough, Steve’s implied plan to have Bucky on edge before the movie’s over works without him having to lift another finger, quite literally. As the final scenes play out, the sexual tension between the main characters on screen barely holds a candle to the one between their seats. Bucky’s tempted to grab Steve’s hand and press it against his crotch during the few seconds it takes before the lights come back on, if only just to startle him, but manages to contain himself.

So the theatre lights up, and as the people start filing out the doors, Bucky politely lets Steve get out of his seat first, before following close behind. He stays behind him while they walk down the stairs, all the way out of the theatre. Once they reach the street outside, Bucky allows Steve to grab his hand like before, and they begin to walk.

Steve’s talking about the movie, and Bucky politely replies when asked his opinion. He’s only got half his head in the conversation, though, as he keeps spying down the street ahead.

“So what did you think of the CGI?” Steve asks him. “I liked the effects at the end, you know, with the raindrops? That was _so_ cool, I bet it would’ve looked awesome in 3D. I just wish they— Hey, what—?”

Steve cuts himself off with a grunt as Bucky unceremoniously pulls him into an empty alleyway. Bucky doesn’t let the partial objection distract, however, as he pushes Steve against the wall and mashes their lips together. He crowds him against the bricks, using the sheer bulk of his body to pin Steve un place, and it only takes Steve a few seconds of initial confusion to get with the program. He grabs at the front of Bucky’s shirt with a moan as he kisses him back—his desire to discuss special effects obviously gone.

Really, the _nerve_ of this guy.

“You’re a goddamn punk, you know that?” Bucky growls as he moves to drag his teeth over the side of Steve’s neck. “You don’t think I know what you were trying to do in there?” He closes his lips around the lobe of Steve’s ear as he cups him through the front of his pants, enjoying the way Steve gasps in response. “Well, congratulations,” Bucky drawls. “You got your wish.”

He shifts his hand, and grabs for the fly of Steve’s pants. Before he can actually undo them, Steve reaches down and stops him.

“No,” he gasps, even as his hips jerk into the touch of Bucky’s fingers. “No, not here.”

Bucky pulls back with a confused frown. Steve shakes his head, still with one hand in a tight grasp around the front of Bucky’s shirt as he leans up to kiss him again.

“Wanna go to your place,” Steve whispers against his lips.

Bucky hesitates. “I live at a motel,” he warns.

“So?” Steve asks.

“It’s not that nice.” Bucky looks down at their feet. “Not like your apartment.”

“Yeah, because I wanna go to your place just to look at the interior decorating,” Steve says pointedly. Then his voice softens. “Please, Buck?” he begs.

Bucky sighs. He nuzzles Steve’s cheek, contemplating their options. “Alright,” he says eventually. “Just…don’t expect anything special.”

“No need,” Steve muses. “I have you, don’t I?”

“Sweet talker,” Bucky chides as he pushes away from the wall, but Steve just smiles, and walks ahead of him out of the alley.

 

/\/\/\

 

The walk to Bucky’s motel has never felt so long. It takes about forty minutes, but it feels like forever and a day. Bucky has plenty of time to worry about whether he had actually managed to put his clothes away before leaving earlier. Or if he’d left any of his guns out.

Steve keeps putting his hand on the small of Bucky’s back as they walk. Brief touches that linger on Bucky’s skin through his shirt and make his heart race in spite of their chaste nature. When they finally reach the motel, he feels close to lightheaded with anticipation. Not because of nerves, but because he knows exactly what’s about to happen the moment he gets his door unlocked and open.

The motel isn’t shabby. Once it had finally become clear he wasn’t being followed by HYDRA, or anyone else, Bucky had moved himself away from the shady neighborhoods in favor of establishments that cared more for guests than they did roaches.

Unfortunately, this also means that unlike his previous homes, there’s a policy against bringing guests up to your room.

They’re in luck, though. The woman normally manning the front desk in the evenings isn’t there. The lights are on, so she’s sure to be around somewhere, but Bucky has no intention of staying until she comes back.

Quickly, he waves Steve into the elevator, and together they make their way up. Bucky has the key fished out of his pocket before the doors have even slid open. Bucky’s room is the second on the right, and as he goes to unlock the door, he feels Steve’s fingers ghost down the length of his spine, provoking a shiver.

The lock clicks open easily, smoothly, and Bucky pushes the door open. He heads on inside, and notes that even though his clothes are still on the bed, all his guns and knives are safely stored away in their proper hiding places. It’s all good, and so Bucky doesn’t waste time.

Steve has time to close the door behind him, but Bucky’s the one who locks it. He does it at the same time as he reaches out and grabs Steve by the shoulder. As the lock clicks for the second time, Steve’s once again standing, back against the wall with Bucky looming over him.

Steve looks up at him. His pupils are wide, his eyes dark, and Bucky can see his chest visibly rise and fall beneath his shirt. There’s something defiant in the way he holds his shoulders, like he’s _daring_ Bucky to come at him. To do his worst. The way he has his chin tilted up just so, along with the slight glare aimed Bucky’s way turns Bucky on something madly.

Bucky meets the glower head on, and even stands up taller, just to see the eager way it makes Steve’s throat bob. He can do whatever he wants right now, and Steve wouldn’t be able to stop him. He knows it. Steve knows it. And Bucky’s pretty sure Steve wants him to try.

Whatever he wants.

And standing there, looking down at this man who’s come to turn his entire world upside down, Bucky knows _exactly_ what he wants to do.

His metal hand is still curled over the top of Steve’s shoulder. As Steve tips his head back against the wall with a low thump to not break eye contact as Bucky comes closer, Bucky slowly lets his fingers trail down the front of Steve’s chest. Taking a firm hold around Steve’s right hip, Bucky then sinks to his knees. Slowly.

Studiously.

When Steve realizes what Bucky means to do, his breath stutters as he presses the palms of his hands against the wall behind him. As if bracing himself.

Bucky gives him a look, and Steve groans out a breathless, “Oh, god, yes.”

Bucky undoes the fly of Steve’s pants and pulls them off. He leans in to press a tender kiss over Steve’s hip bone, sliding his mouth over his stomach while he continues to undress him. Slowly, he pulls Steve’s briefs down, just enough to eases Steve’s thickening cock out of them, before giving the shaft a slow pump with his fist.

Steve groans. For a moment his eyes slide shut, but then he opens them again just as quick. Like he doesn’t want to miss a second of what’s happening.

The thought goes straight to Bucky’s dick; that Steve wants to _see_ what Bucky’s about to do. The urge to just let his mouth close over Steve’s cockhead is overwhelming, but Bucky controls himself. He hasn’t forgotten about the rules.

So he looks up at Steve, and lets his lips fall apart, just a little as he leans forward. So close, but still out of reach. “Can I?” he asks.

He expect some sort of snide remark. Another cocky, “You better,” or something similar. But Steve just nods, seemingly at a loss for words.

It’s a rare thing—Steve choosing not to talk—and Bucky decides that he likes having that effect on him.

Gingerly, Bucky lets the tip of Steve’s cock slide against the curve of his bottom lip. He can feel a faint smear form in its wake, and just barely manages to keep himself from running his tongue over it. Just to taste. He allows Steve’s shaft to slowly slip into his mouth, and Bucky presses his tongue against the bottom to savor the feel of it. He keeps going until he feels the girth press against the back of his throat. He knows, on an intimate level, what Steve normally does when that happens. Wanting to repay the favor, Bucky makes an attempt to take Steve even deeper, and in turn Steve gasps and groans while frantically fumbling for Bucky’s shoulder.

As nice as the reaction is, however, Bucky sadly can’t stand the sensation for long. His eyes begin to water, and his lungs burn with the need for air, and as he pulls off he has to fight down a violent gag-reflex that he definitely hadn’t expected.  

“Sorry,” he says as he tries to stifle a cough. “I might have to practice that.”

“Whenever you want,” Steve breathes fervently. There’s no mockery in his voice. Nothing but raw, unbridled excitement.

Bucky groans and takes Steve into his mouth again. He slides his lips down the wet shaft at the same time as he hollows his cheeks, and as he does, he feels Steve’s fingers twitch against the side of his neck. It’s a good reaction, but there’s something missing. Something else Bucky wants Steve to do to make this moment right.

Letting go of Steve’s hip, Bucky takes a light hold of Steve’s hand and guides it to his head where he pointedly squeezes Steve’s fingers, forcing them to close. Steve takes the hint, and curls his hand into a fist around the strands of Bucky’s hair.

Then he tugs.

Bucky gasps at the sensation, and the noise morphs into a throaty moan as he feels himself harden even further inside his jeans. Steve does it again, slower. This time, he holds the tension for longer, and Jesus Christ, Bucky feels like he can’t breathe. His cock strains against his underwear, and he has to steady himself against the wall just to keep his balance.

Breathing hard through his nose, Bucky fumbles his jeans open and pulls himself out of his underwear. At the first stroke over his cock, a moan punches out of Steve’s throat from above Bucky’s head, and Bucky gasps when Steve tightens his fingers in his hair.

“Oh, god,” Steve moans. “Fuck, that’s so hot.”

Bucky glances up and meets his gaze while moaning softly around the hard flesh in his mouth. Steve’s jaw is slack, and there’s a light sheen of sweat covering his temples, and the intent furl of his brow. The hand not currently tangled in Bucky’s hair is splayed flat against the wall, fingers twitching.

Bucky knows of a better place for it. He reaches out to give the cuff of Steve’s sleeve a tug, at the same time as he presses his head up against Steve’s other hand with a keening noise. Again, Steve shows a surprising amount of perceptiveness as he immediately brings both hands in to run them through Bucky’s hair. His fingers are soft and tender. He cups them around the back of Bucky’s head with a sigh as he breathes out an inarticulate murmur that would’ve maybe passed as a sentence, in another place and time.  

Grunting, Bucky grabs Steve by the thigh and presses him against the wall, feeling possessive and submissive, all at once.

He loves the way Steve’s looking at him. Loves the way he can feel him swell in his mouth, the way Steve’s fingernails scratch against his scalp. God, Bucky’s wanted to do this so many times… It’s funny really, how they never had gotten around to it, considering all the other things they’ve done. But it doesn’t matter. This is perfect, just like this. God, Bucky feels like he could come just thinking about it.

In fact, he just might.

He sucks at Steve’s cock and groans as he revels in the sound of Steve’s answering whine, along with the sight of his fluttering eyelids. He stops stroking himself—has to—and moans again at the tingle that flares up at the base of his spine as he pulls off with a wet smack of his lips.

“Harder,” he gasps. His voice comes out sounding raw and guttural, but Steve doesn’t seem to mind. He chokes out a noise, and his grip around the back of Bucky’s head  obediently tightens as Bucky goes back to sucking, picking up the pace. He follows with the movement of Bucky’s head, back and forth, up and down, holds on more than he controls it, really, and oh, it’s just what Bucky wants.

Bucky’s hips jerks as he thrusts up into the tunnel of his own fist without being able to stop, and he hears Steve moan out loud above him; hears him moan like _that._

The sound sparks a flame deep inside Bucky’s gut, like it always has, since that very first time Steve had kneeled between Bucky’s legs to leave his mind in pleasurable shambles. He wants to settle that score. He wants to make Steve go deaf and blind with ecstasy as Bucky takes him apart with just his mouth and tongue. He’s so close to coming himself, but he can’t. Not yet. Not until Steve does.

He’s holding his own cock with just the tips of his fingers now, but that’s more than enough. He can feel it twitch every time he thinks Steve’s about to pull at his hair, and every time Steve doesn’t, the need for actual touch grows even stronger. Whining, Bucky allows himself a quick swipe of a thumb against the crown of his cock, and his entire body jerks at the euphoria that instantly rips through his limbs.

“Gonna make me shoot…” Steve whispers urgently. His voice stutters, his body shivering beneath the tight press of Bucky’s palm. Bucky start jerking himself off faster.

“Oh, I’m right fucking there, sweetheart,” Steve says, more frantic as his fingers pull at Bucky’s hair hard enough to hurt. His shaking turns into squirming as he’s seemingly torn between trying to thrust into Bucky’s mouth and keeping himself still. “Oh, fuck, Bucky, I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come, you’re gonna make me co—”

Bucky tilts his head up with a final suck to the head of Steve’s cock, just in time to catch the moment Steve’s eyes glaze over, and his breath goes silent. The initial burst of his release takes Bucky by surprise, if only just. Steve tastes salty, but not with the bitter tang Bucky had been expecting from their previous conversations. He swallows it all. His hand is flying over his cock now, stripping it hard and fast as he greedily keeps lapping at the cock in his mouth.

As Steve gives a final, weak pull to the hair at the back of Bucky’s head, Bucky finally allows the orgasm to shoot up his spine. It bursts through his mind and shatters his vision in a million dazzling pieces. He dies, again, and again with each wet dribble of his cock, until all that’s left is a waning trickle down the length of his fingers, and his body feels reborn.

Throughout it all, he doesn’t stop sucking Steve off. He keeps going in a daze, until Steve’s hands goes from just grasping at his hair to yanking at it to make him stop. Pleased and sated, Bucky lets Steve’s cock slip from his mouth with a breathless moan, and Steve slumps against the wall with a similar noise before slowly sinking down to sit on the floor with his legs splayed wide on either side of Bucky’s kneeling body.

Without hesitation, Bucky leans in and kisses him, right on the mouth; he can’t think of anything that feels more right to do than just that. Steve breathes out a soft sigh into the kiss, like he’s all out of alternative noises to make. Bucky’s fine with that.

When Steve pulls back to thunk his head against the wall with another moan, Bucky drops his forehead to rest against Steve’s shoulder. He can feel Steve’s chest heaving, and he’s also pretty sure that he can feel the beat of Steve’s pulse travel through his lips when he turns his head to press them against his neck.  

“So,” Steve pants, “you wanna go grab a shower?”

  
  



	12. 12

 

"So, you wanna go grab a shower?”

Instantly, the warm, post-orgasmic haze at the centre of Bucky’s body flickers and goes out. Apparently, his body language shows as much, because Steve also freezes.

“What?” he asks, adding sternly when Bucky draws a breath, “And don’t you dare say nothing.”

Seeing right through him. As always.

Bucky presses his forehead—which is still resting against Steve’s shoulder—closer to the crook of Steve’s neck.

“I… I don’t really deal with showers all that well,” he confesses. He pauses. Waits.

“What does that mean, exactly?” Steve asks slowly. “Not dealing well? You said that at my place too, but you never explained it.”

Bucky swallows. “Cold water,” he says hoarsely. “Panic attacks. I used to throw up, but… At least now I can do it without crying.”

“Jesus…” Steve whispers.

“Yeah,” Bucky replies. He extends a finger to brush it against the buckle of Steve’s belt, lying on the floor next to his hand. The metal is cool to the touch, and Bucky quickly pulls the finger away.  

“How come?” Steve asks quietly. He tries to make the question sound calm; curious even. But there’s a treacherous tension in his body that Bucky knows Steve wouldn’t have been able to hide, even if he’d wanted to. Steve _knows_ why—or at least suspects that he knows. He just wants Bucky to be the one to say it. To share it willingly.

Bucky really wishes that he could.

“It’s complicated,” is what he says. He hears and feels Steve drag in a breath, slowly, as if he’d expected that reply, but didn’t like hearing it all the same. It makes Bucky feel horrible.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I don’t mean that you wouldn’t understand. It’s just that I don’t think I can talk about it. Not yet.”

“I know,” Steve says, and Bucky closes his eyes as he feels Steve wrap his arms around him. “And I’ve told you, you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

“But I _do_ want to,” Bucky protests. “I _want_ to tell you everything, but I—” He clenches his teeth with a frustrated groan.

He doesn’t know which part to say first, if at all. That he’s worried Steve will find out about his past, and get scared of him. That he dreads that without Steve, he’ll revert back into the machine he once was. That somehow, by telling Steve the truth, he’ll jinx them both, and HYDRA will appear as if summoned from his past to tear their very existence apart. That he’s terrified of losing the life he’s managed to build for himself. The life where he goes on dates, eats at Italian restaurants, and goes to the movies, eating popcorn just like everyone else.

The life that has Steve in it.

Steve doesn’t reply. He just keeps stroking his open palms down the curve of Bucky’s back. Slowly, over and over, until the soothing rhythm thaws the cold in Bucky’s chest and he can breathe again.

“Is it just showers?” Steve murmurs suddenly. Bucky blinks, realizing with a start that he’d been close to dozing off, right there on the floor.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“I mean, have you tried bathing?” Steve clarifies. “Or is that just as bad?”

_Bathing._

“Like… In the tub?” Bucky whispers.

“Since that’s usually where bathing takes place, yeah. In the tub.”

In the tub.

Oh, sweet Jesus, the goddamn _tub._

Bucky buries his face against Steve’s neck with a whine when the realization hits. “I am an idiot,” he declares morosely. His voice is muffled by Steve’s skin, but Steve apparently hears him well enough anyway.

“Why?” he asks as he shoves at Bucky’s shoulder to make him sit up straight. Bucky lets him, but he can’t bring himself to lift his head. God, he’s so _stupid_ . So fucking stupid, he shouldn’t even be _alive_ at this point!

“I never thought about using the tub,” he confesses while still staring at the floor by Steve’s feet. “All those years, showering was the only thing allowed, and I never—” He squeezes his eyes shut and pulls his hands through his hair with a low groan. “It never occured to me that I don’t _have_ to do it that way anymore.”

He expects Steve to laugh. To snort, or chuckle. He expects him to tease him, because that’s what Steve normally does to break tension, but Steve remains silent. And when Bucky finally manages to turn his gaze up, the smile on Steve’s face looks sad. He doesn’t speak, but it’s clear that he’s got a lot of things he wishes he could say, if he’d thought they’d make a difference.

Instead, Steve gently takes hold of Bucky’s hand as he stands up. He helps Bucky to his feet, and gives his hand a gentle tug as he starts towards the bathroom. Bucky goes with him, even as the dread begins to coil in his stomach when he realizes where they’re headed.

Steve opens the bathroom door and steps inside, flipping the lightswitch after a moment of searching with his fingers over the wall. Unlike many other motels Bucky’s stayed at so far, the tiles of this bathroom are not white. They’re a creamy natural sandstone, with rugged texture and a depth that makes the bathroom feel a little like it’s been chiseled out of a rock. It’s been a much more pleasant area to wash up in than any other mundane white-tiled bathroom Bucky’s been in, absolutely. But the heart of the problem remains.

Steve doesn’t let Bucky’s hand go as he walks over to the bathtub. His grip is light, and he’s coaxing Bucky to come with him rather than demanding it. Bucky watches in silence as Steve puts the stopper into the drain of the tub, and then turns the tap on. Steve tests the temperature with his fingertips, adjusts the flow a little, and then turns back around.

Bucky’s heart thuds when Steve lifts their joined hands to his face, keeping his eyes locked on Bucky’s as he does. He kisses the back of Bucky’s hand, softly. His lips are soft, and Bucky shivers as Steve’s other hand comes up to trail slightly wet fingers down the skin of his wrist.  

Steve continues to kiss his hand, one knuckle at a time while he rolls down the rolled up cuff of Bucky’s shirt. When he’s done, he rolls the left sleeve down as well, but faster, more efficiently. He doesn’t linger on that arm, as always, and as soon as he’s done, he starts to unbutton Bucky’s shirt, starting at the neck and working down.

He slips the shirt off of Bucky’s shoulders, but he doesn’t let it drop to the floor. He folds it, meticulously, making sure the creases line up just right, before putting it down on the closed toilet lid.

Bucky doesn’t move.

He looks on in silence as Steve kneels down by his feet to untie and remove his boots. First the right. Then the left. He allows Steve to slide his already unbuttoned soiled jeans down his legs, belt still dangling from the hoops around the waist. Bucky obediently lifts his feet for Steve to pull them all the way off, and having folded and reached past Bucky to put that jeans away with the rest of his clothes, Steve stands back up.

Bucky is prepared for his boxer briefs to be removed next, but Steve doesn’t touch him. Instead, he goes to work on his own clothes, undoing his shirt, taking off his shoes, and his already undone pants. He too leaves his shorts on.

“You know the rules,” Steve murmurs softly as he comes to stand in front of him.

“Yes,” Bucky replies.

“Say it,” Steve whispers.

“If I need to stop, I’ll tell you to stop.”

“And?”

“I won’t do anything I don’t want to do, just to act tough,” Bucky recites obediently. It’s an old drill by now, but Steve always insist on having him say it. Like it’s a promise he doesn’t trust Bucky to keep if he only has to promise it to himself.

“Good,” Steve praises. He leans up—standing on the tip of his toes in order to press a kiss to Bucky’s cheek. “That’s good.” He takes Bucky by the hand again and leads him up to stand by the edge of the tub. The water is barely filled up halfway, but Steve doesn’t appear to consider that a problem. “Do you want to undress?” he asks.

Bucky looks down at the water.

The last time his body had been anywhere near submerged, he had been sinking into the icy depths of the Potomac river.

It feels like a lifetime ago. Or a different life, altogether.

“Yes,” he replies. His voice comes out a croak.

“Do you want me to undress as well?” Steve asks.

“Yes.”

Steve lets his hand go, and Bucky instantly wishes he’d said no instead. He misses the touch like a physical ache as he watches Steve take his briefs off. When Steve’s naked, he straightens up to reach around Bucky’s waist, and guides him to turn in order to face him more fully.

Bucky’s not sure why he doesn’t simply ask Bucky to do any of these things himself. Undressing, filling up the tub, standing at the right spot. Bucky is fully capable of doing all of that, should Steve just tell him to, but somehow, not doing anything feels right. Like in their earlier sessions when Steve had done all the necessary preparations before instructing Bucky on what to do. It’s relaxing in a way, falling into the old pattern of being the student, even though this is so very different from any of their sexual studies. It’s different from taking orders as well. He’s thought about it before, why following Steve’s lead makes him so calm and at ease, when following orders in the past had caused him nothing but pain and grief. The explanation had been as simple as it had been obvious.

Here, Bucky has a choice—always—and doing what Steve wants him to is so much easier, and feels so much safer, knowing he doesn’t _have to._

Steve leans in and presses his lips softly to the center of Bucky’s chest as he lets his hands brush down Bucky’s sides. Hooking his fingers into the elastic at Bucky’s hips, he eases the underwear down. As they hit the floor, Bucky steps out of them before Steve can prompt him to. Steve kisses his chest again, and then moves back.

“Do you want to get in first?” he asks. “Or should I?”

Bucky flickers his gaze at Steve, and then swallows as he looks back at the tub.

“You first.”

Steve nods, and turns away. He steps into the tub and sits, supporting himself with his hands against the edges on the way down. The water rises slightly when he enters it, but it’s not by much. Steve’s not all that much mass, after all.

“Your turn,” he says. He holds his hand out, and Bucky takes it.

He doesn’t move, though.

Bucky looks at the water laving over Steve’s hips and legs, and clenches his jaw.

What if they’re wrong?

What if taking a bath is just as bad as taking the regular showers has been? What if it’s worse? What if, by doing this, Bucky will unlock so-far hidden memories, unearthing more horrors from his past that’s been kept safe and away from his conscious mind up until now?

He doesn’t want to have a panic attack in front of Steve. He doesn’t have answers for the questions that would rise if he did, but also, what if he ends up hurting Steve by accident? Mistakes him for an enemy that isn’t really there?

He wouldn’t be able to live with himself.

Bucky’s suddenly snapped out of his thoughts when he feels the touch of Steve’s thumb rub over his index finger.

“C’mon,” Steve says. “It’ll be fine, I promise.” He tugs at his hand. “I’m right here.”

Bucky hesitates. Then he slowly raises his leg and steps over the edge of the tub.

The water is warm around his foot as he puts it down, and his instinctual reaction is to yank it back out. But he doesn’t. He focuses on Steve: his face, his eyes, his smile. The palm nestled against his own.

Once he’s got both feet in the water, he ends up simply standing there for a moment, awkwardly looking down as he tries to decide what to do next.

“Sit down,” Steve instructs. “This way, here.” He makes a gesture for Bucky to turn around so that his back is towards him, and Bucky does.

He sinks into the water, and for a split second, everything comes falling apart. His lungs cease functioning, his heart stops, and his body freezes. Then Steve’s arms circle his chest and pull him backwards, and as Bucky’s shoulders come to a rest against Steve’s front, his heart starts beating once again.

“It’s okay,” Steve murmurs against his ear. “I’ve got you. Just breathe, sweetheart.”

Immediately, Bucky drags a deep breath into his lungs, following Steve’s instruction as he lets the air back out again in a jagged rush.

“That’s it,” Steve praises. “Just like that.”

Bucky nods. He’s got his eyes wide open as he stares up at the tiled wall in front of him, and even though the muscles of his body aren’t wound as tight as they had been before, they’re still hard and rigid beneath his skin. He’s clutching the edges of the tub with both hands, one on each side, and the grip of his flesh hand is so hard, it leaves his knuckles whitening.

Slowly, Steve moves his right hand from Bucky’s chest to run it along the length of his right arm, down to his wrist. “Let go, darlin’,” he whispers. He wiggles his fingers between Bucky’s, making Bucky let go of the porcelain edge one digit at a time. “You’re safe here. I’ve got you.”

Bucky’s thumb is the last to leave the tub’s surface as Steve guides Bucky’s hand into the water with a soft splash, entwining their fingers on the way down. He kisses the side of Bucky’s neck as he rubs a soothing circle over his chest with his free hand.

“Close your eyes,” he breathes.

Bucky does. Steve keeps moving his hand over his body, interchanging the circles for long, reassuring strokes from the top of Bucky’s shoulders, down across his stomach, towards his hip. Bucky focuses on that touch, forces himself to breathe along with it. He clutches Steve’s hand as the water keeps rising around them—slowly, but steadily.

“You’re doing great,” Steve encourages him once the water starts covering Bucky’s ribs. Bucky hears his voice as through a mist, and he hums out a low affirmative. He doesn’t have the strength to speak. Steve’s left hand keeps moving, and the fingers of his right brush tiny circles into Bucky’s palm that mimic the larger one currently being drawn over his chest. At one point, Steve moves away, and the sound of rushing water stops as Steve reaches behind himself to turn off the tap. Then he puts his hand back on Bucky’s skin, and Bucky breathes out a low sigh, not having realized he had been holding his breath waiting for the touch to return.

Steve smoothes his palm over his torso, up and down. Slowly, Bucky’s mind begins to drift as it’s gradually lulled into a near-sleeping state in the stillness of the bathroom. It’s not a complete silence. Bucky can still hear the subtle lapping of water against the edges of the tub, the sound of Steve’s steady breathing, the dripping sound caused by the water trickling down Bucky’s sides everytime Steve pulls his hand up from beneath the water’s surface.

Then the hand is suddenly in his hair, and Bucky melts back against Steve’s shoulder with a low groan.

Steve massages his scalp, his neck, trailing fingers behind his ears and back up his temples to his forehead. Just like that, the last of the fear in his body frays, disintegrates, and Bucky feels himself go lightheaded as the tension he’d been holding crumbles from the relief that follows. It’s nice—damn, it’s amazing—and when Steve leans in to kiss Bucky’s cheek, Bucky reflexively angles his head a little to the side to give him better access.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Steve asks, not without amusement.

“Mmm.”  

“Good,” Steve says. “I’m glad.” He rubs his nose against Bucky’s ear at the same time as he gives the hair at the back of Bucky’s head a light tug. “You want me to help wash your hair?”

“You don’t have to,” Bucky mumbles.

“What if I want to?”

Bucky just moans again (he’s not even sure what he means by it; words sort of escape him at the moment), and then sits up taller to reach for the shampoo at the other end of the tub. He hands it to Steve over his shoulder and sinks back against his chest as Steve pops the cap to the bottle. Bucky hums under his breath as Steve lathers him up, basking in the soothing touches, even before Steve pauses to rub some of the shampoo over his shoulders and chest.

He obediently tips his head back when Steve urges him to, and he doesn’t so much as flinch when Steve uses the showerhead to rinse the shampoo out of his hair. Bucky has to sit up a little for him to do so, but he doesn’t mind. Poor Steve must’ve felt like he was getting crushed by Bucky’s weight all this time anyway.

“You wanna switch places?” Bucky asks when Steve puts the showerhead aside. “I could help with your hair too?”

Steve shrugs, and Bucky gestures for him to move. The water sloshes as they switch, and Bucky snorts out a laugh under his breath as the tub makes a high-pitched squeaky noise when Steve sits down between his knees.

Steve sends him a quick glower over his shoulder, but Bucky ignores it as he pops the cap to the shampoo bottle with a pointed flick of his thumb. He washes Steve’s hair, and Steve tips his head forward, body relaxed and swaying along with the movements. He hums and breathes out soft little moans towards the surface of the water everytime Bucky adds a little pressure to the tips of his fingers, and Bucky really likes that.

When Bucky deems his work done, he rinses the shampoo out. The water has gone slightly cold while the’ve been bathing, and at Steve’s suggestion Bucky empties some of it out and replaces it with new, warm water from the tap. It’s funny how quickly cold water loses its appeal, after having been able to actually enjoy getting clean in humane temperatures.

Afterwards, Bucky leans back against the edge of the tub with Steve’s head resting against this shoulder. He wraps his flesh arm around both Steve’s arm and chest, holding his hand while the metal one circles Steve’s stomach to tug him in tight against Bucky’s body.

They lie there together, with a thin veil of steam rising up around them. Bucky’s playing with the lengths of Steve’s fingers. Running the pad of his thumb over Steve’s nails, he takes mental notes of how small Steve’s hands are compared to his. Bucky’s are larger, but he still considers Steve’s to be more elegant. He’s very fond of Steve’s hands.

On a whim, he brings the hand up and presses it to his lips. Steve’s skin tastes slightly of soap, which Bucky hadn’t taken into consideration, but at the moment that feels secondary to the need to express the fond warmth simmering inside his chest.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

“Don’t mention it,” Steve replies quietly. “Just glad I could help.”

“No,” Bucky says. “I mean, I’m grateful for this, of course, but I meant not _just_ for this, today. I meant for everything.”

“Everything?” Steve asks. Bucky sighs.

“Helping me,” he says. “Teaching me…”

“Really, you did most of the work yourself,” Steve says. He looks down to where Bucky’s still toying with his fingers, and adds, even quieter, “I hardly had to do anything. “

“You did everything,” Bucky whispers, and he can tell from the way Steve’s breath catches, that they both know they’re not just talking about their professional agreement now. Bucky ducks his head and presses it against the side of Steve’s temple with a low sigh. “I guess one could say you saved my life, in a way.”

Gently, Steve pulls his hand out of Bucky’s grip and reaches up to wrap it around the back of his head. He rubs the tips of his fingers over Bucky’s scalp, and Bucky closes his eyes with another soft rub against Steve’s head in return.

“Well…” Steve murmurs. “You saved mine too.”

“I couldn’t even save myself.”

“Sometimes we can’t,” Steve objects. “Not by ourselves, at least. Sometimes we just need a little help…”

Bucky hums. Steve give his head a little bump, as if asking what the hum is supposed to mean, and Bucky doesn’t realize he’s made a decision before he opens his mouth.

“Listen, about my past—”  

“Buck, I’ve told you,” Steve cuts him off, “it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” Bucky argues. “You deserve to know the truth. I— I want you to know it, but… The truth is, I’m scared.”

“About what?”

Bucky tightens his grip around Steve’s torso, trying not to think of the way his arm whirrs as he does. “That if I tell you, you’ll leave,” he mumbles under his breath.

“Why would I?” Steve asks. He tries to twist around to look at Bucky’s face, but Bucky doesn’t let him.

“Because of the things I’ve done,” he says. “I’m scared once I tell you, you’ll be scared of me.”

Steve stills, and the hand that had been pushing against the side of the tub relaxes as Steve grows silent. “I’m not afraid of you,” he says after a while, and Bucky feels a lump form in the back of his throat.

“That’s because you don’t really know who I am.”

“Lies,” Steve declares. “I know exactly who you are.” Firmly, he pries Bucky’s arm away from his waist to twist his upper body around to face him, seeking out Bucky’s gaze with a resolve Bucky can’t bring himself to avoid. He reaches up to cup Bucky’s cheek, and Bucky feels the worry clawing at his insides falter as Steve continues, softly, “And you don’t scare me.”

Bucky knows that he’s got tears in his eyes because they burn as he tries to blink them away. “I don’t want to disappoint you,” he manages.

To his surprise, Steve shrugs.

“Well, you might,” he says. “But that’s sort of the thing with relationships, isn’t it? At some point two people that close are bound to disappoint each other. And sure, they’ll argue, and maybe even fight about it, but it’s not really gonna matter in the long run. Because there’s a difference between being disappointed and being hurt.”

Pausing, Steve looks down to where he’s still holding onto Bucky’s right hand. As he moves the pads of his fingers over Bucky’s palm, Steve adds in a murmur, “And you don’t just walk out on someone you love because you’re _disappointed…”_

The words hit Bucky’s brain, softly, but sharp like a blade all the same. They do things to his stomach, his chest, his lungs, and for a moment he’s not sure whether or not he’s alive or dying. He stares at Steve, stunned, and when Steve notices the silence, he looks up. He must see something on Bucky’s face that Bucky’s not aware that he’s showing, because a second later, Steve leans up and presses a kiss to Bucky’s gaping mouth.

He kisses him slowly. He drags it out until air becomes something Bucky remembers needing, but doesn’t want anymore, and when Steve eventually pulls back with a final, lingering brush of lips, the breath Bucky drags into his lungs is shaky and close to painful.

“Tomorrow,” Steve whispers. “We sleep, get breakfast, make sure we’re rested. Then you can tell me all about it if you want. If you’re ready.” He kisses Bucky again. “But not tonight.”

Bucky nods. He manages to swallow, but his voice is still trembling as he croaks out a low, “Alright,” in return.

Steve smiles at him, then, and after another kiss, he pulls back with a sigh and stretches both his arms over his head with a lazy groan. “You wanna get out?” he asks, even as he prepares to stand up. “If we stay in the water much longer we’ll start growing fins and gills.”

Bucky snorts out a laugh and clears his throat from the lingering squawk. “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he says, and when Steve gives him a curious frown, he smirks. “I saw the way you looked when you showed me The Little Mermaid,” he explains. “If you grew a fishtail you’d be ecstatic.”

“Shut up,” Steve grumbles as he deliberately sloshes water in Bucky’s direction when he steps out of the tub. Bucky simply grins at the red flush rising to the top of Steve’s ears as he yanks one of the towels down from the hanger and wraps it around his waist.

“You’d make a cute mermaid. Mer _man_ ,” Bucky says as he folds both his arms over the edge of the tub and puts on a dreamy expression as Steve turns to look at him. “With the cutest little fins. And the cutest little fish-penis.”   

“Oh god, _shut up,_ ” Steve whines, grimacing.

“What do fish-penises look like, by the way?” Bucky asks. “Maybe they’re bigger than human penises?”

“How the hell should I know?” Steve counters while grabbing another towel from the wall.

“I don’t know,” Bucky says. “Maybe you’ve done research? You know, in case some pretty merman knocks on your door one day, and asks you for a—” He’s cut off with a grunt when Steve unceremoniously tosses the towel at his face. Bucky tries to tug it off, but Steve beats him to it, and shoves it down over his head to towel Bucky’s hair in rough, huffy motions.

“You are a jerk,” Steve informs him, tugging at Bucky’s bangs. “And if mermen actually existed, I would leave you for one right this instant. Regardless of penis-size.”  

Bucky snorts out a laugh. He grabs Steve’s wrist and pulls the towel out of his grip as he stands up from the tub, water sloshing around his calves as he tugs Steve close.  

“Is that so?” he asks confidently, smirking when Steve yanks himself out of his hand with only a momentary glance towards Bucky’s crotch.

“More-or-less,” Steve replies defiantly. Bucky’s smile widens as Steve turns away to towel at his own head. He knows the sound of a lie when he hears one, after all.

 

/\/\/\

 

“Can we put on some music?” Steve asks.

Bucky looks over to where Steve is just pulling up his pants again, having ignored the need for underwear for now. Bucky, who’s already dressed in a fresh pair of boxer briefs, closes the drawer of shirts in front of him in favor of walking over to his desk, where his laptop is. Doing so, he also suffers a minor heart attack as he realizes that he’s left the entire stack of papers from his file sitting out in the open right next to it.

He’d been so preoccupied looking for guns and scattered clothes upon coming back to the room that he’d completely forgotten about those.

Quickly, he shoves the bundle into his backpack on the floor next to the desk, just as Steve comes up to stand next to him with a curious look at the still sleeping laptop.

“You play straight through the computer speakers?” he asks as Bucky brings the device to life with a tap of his finger against the keys. “That can’t give a very good sound?”

“It’s alright,” Bucky says while nonchalantly kicking the backpack underneath the desk. “I normally don’t play it loud enough for it to matter.”

“What kinda music do you listen to?”

Bucky opens up the default player, the playlist already loaded, and offers the laptop for Steve to have a look. Steve leans in to squint at the titles, and as Bucky moves away, he clicks the top one and turns up the volume.

It’s an old song from the late thirties—and actually one of Bucky’s top ten songs, so far—and Steve raises his eyebrows in surprise as the upbeat tunes come streaming out of the laptop’s built-in speakers.

“Wow,” he says, “now that’s a tune you don’t hear everyday.” He clicks the next one, and this time he actually laughs and shakes his head. “Really, I wouldn’t have picked you for a vintage kinda guy when it came to music.”

“What would you have picked me for, then?” Bucky asks.

“I don’t know. Anything but this. Rock’n’roll, maybe?”

“Yeah, I tried that,” Bucky admits. “Didn’t really get it.”

“You didn’t _get_ rock’n’roll?” Steve asks skeptically, and when Bucky just shrugs in return, he laughs again. “You really are a weirdo…”

He pages through a few other titles, but when he hits another one of Bucky’s favorites—a slow-paced instrumental song from the early forties—Bucky’s struck by an impulse. He stands up and holds out his hand towards Steve, who looks up from the laptop with a confused frown.

“What?” he asks.

“What does it look like?” Bucky counters with a curl of his fingertips. “I’m asking you to dance.”

“ _You_ know how to dance?” Steve asks, sounding impressed.

“Yes, but it’s a secret, so don’t tell anyone.”

Steve makes a noise as if he’s not sure whether he wants to laugh or groan at him. However, as Bucky gives his fingers another wiggle, Steve takes his hand with an exaggerated roll of his eyes.

Bucky walks backwards and out into the slightly larger space between the bed and the hallway, and Steve follows. As he pulls Steve in, Bucky’s not sure what the steps he takes are called—if they even have a name, or if they’re just his own invention altogether—but they feel right, so he just goes with it. Slowly at first, and then more confidently as he lets the music decide where he puts his feet. As he gives Steve a slow twirl over the carpeted floor, he can feel yet another piece from his past slot into place. He has absolutely done this before.

“You really weren’t kidding,” Steve says with unbridled fascination.

“Told ya,” Bucky replies. He spins Steve again, and Steve chuckles as he gets tugged in against Bucky’s chest afterwards.

There they stay. Bucky sways them slowly from side to side in time with the music, and after a while, Steve leans his head against Bucky’s shoulder with a soft sigh. It’s nice. Bucky finds himself torn between wanting the music never to end, and having it end sooner so he can pull Steve into a kiss without ruining the moment.

God, he’s so fucked.

He’s so in love, had this been one of Steve’s cartoon movies, there’d be hearts exploding in his eyes, and rainbows dripping from the corners of his mouth while butterflies soared out of his ears. He’s in love, and he’s here, with Steve’s breath tickling his collarbone, and he never wants it to end. Ever.

Taking a deep breath, he tugs Steve in even closer and buries his face in the hair at the top of his head. “Stay,” he murmurs.  

“The night?” Steve asks. “I sorta assumed that was the plan?”

“No,” Bucky says, “I mean… Stay. With me. Like, actually be with me.”

Slowly, Steve pulls back from Bucky’s shoulder, and Bucky slows the dance to a stop as he realizes that Steve’s looking down at the floor between their feet. It's not the reaction Bucky had been hoping for, and a worrying one at that.

“Are you sure you’d want that?” Steve asks quietly.

“Of course I am,” Bucky replies. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Steve sighs. He sounds tired, like they’ve already had this conversation a thousand times before. But they haven’t. Bucky _knows_ they haven’t.

“You know what I do for a living, Buck,” Steve says, and Bucky nods.

“I do.”

Steve gnaws at his bottom lip. “And it doesn’t bother you?” he prompts.

“What do you mean? Why would it bother me?”

“I mean, that if we do…that,” Steve says carefully. “If we become _that_ , it doesn’t automatically mean I’m gonna be able to stop working anytime soon. I like my job. I mean, it brings in good money, and I'm good at it. It’s what I _do_.”

“I know,” Bucky says, but Steve waves him off, like he’s frustrated that Bucky’s being so compliant.

“No, you don’t,” he argues. “You _think_ you do, but you don’t.” He sighs again, heavier than before. “I admit, it’s not _always_ fun. There are bad days, but what job doesn’t have those? But that’s the thing about this whole private business, that I can decide for myself when I work and when I don’t. And you might not want me to continue, and I might eventually get bored with it, but I don’t want you to think that just because we’re together, that I’m gonna start making calls tomorrow morning to all my clients about—”

“Hey, hey, hey.” Bucky cuts Steve’s increasingly irritable rant off by grabbing hold of his hands and pressing them against his naked chest. “Steve, I told you,” he says solemnly. “It’s okay. I know, I get it.  Listen, you can do whatever you want. _Should_ do whatever you want.”

Steve narrows his eyes at him. “Even if what I want involves sleeping with other men?” he asks defiantly.

“As long as you don’t make love to them.”

Bucky’s reply seems to catch Steve off guard, because instantly, the rigid square of his shoulders slump, and his facial expression softens. Bucky lets out a sigh through his nose, and leans forward to kiss Steve on the forehead.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” Bucky says. “Thinking about you having sex with another man does feel… like something I _shouldn’t_ be okay with. But the truth is that I am. As long as that’s all it is.” He looks down at the hands he still has pressed against his heart. “If you tell me you want to keep doing what you do because you like it, and because it makes you feel more like you than any other job would, then… I can’t tell you to give that up. I don’t have that right. But I also want you to know that you don’t _have_ to keep doing what you do if you don’t _actually_ want it.”

Steve swallows as he drops his gaze to stare at Bucky’s hands. “I still have that student loan to pay off…” he starts reluctantly. “And even then, I don’t have much to show for the education anyway. The job market ain’t exactly a friendly place, and I have no other experience than this.”

“Have you thought about going back to school?” Bucky asks. “Study something else?”

“I’d still have to pay for it,” Steve says. He sounds sad. “And I don’t even know what I’d wanna do, or what I _can_ do that’d be worth it, I—”

“There’s no need to decide that now,” Bucky soothes, before Steve can work himself up into a frenzy again. “You’ve got plenty of time.”

“It scares me,” Steve confesses. “What if I try, and it turns out I can’t?”

“Don’t say that,” Bucky orders. “If you don’t even know what it is you’re going to try, how can you say you’ll fail?” He moves a hand away to gently cradle the back of Steve’s head. When he gives it a little nudge, Steve steps in to press his brow against Bucky’s shoulder again. Bucky feels Steve’s hands come up to hug around the small of his back, and Bucky quickly reciprocates by wrapping his other hand around Steve’s shoulders.

The song ends, but another one quickly takes its place a few seconds later. It’s another slow dance. This one sounds sadder than the first one had, and Bucky hears Steve sigh against his chest when the first sequence of notes begin to play.

Bucky’s not sure whether or not he should say anything, or simply wait for Steve to speak first. However, as the seconds pass and Steve remains quiet, Bucky decides to brave the silence himself.

“We could go away,” he suggests tentatively. “Leave New York altogether. We could go wherever we want.”

“It’s not that simple,” Steve murmurs.

“But it is,” Bucky insists. “It’s exactly that simple.” Gently, he shifts his grip to tip Steve’s chin up while rubbing his thumb over Steve’s shoulder blade. “We don’t even have to be gone for long. We could just take a breather. Leave, try something new, and then come back to make up our minds.”

“What, like a vacation?” Steve asks with a snort.

“Yes,” Bucky says encouragingly. “Exactly like a vacation.” He drops his arm from Steve’s shoulder to squeeze his hand. “All you have to do is choose. Whichever road you pick, I’ll go with you. If you want me to?”

“Of course I want you,” Steve whispers. He’s gone back to wearing that sad, dejected expression as before, and the hope in Bucky’s chest fades a little when Steve continues, “But I’ve already tried it, Buck. It never works out.”

“You haven’t tried it with me,” Bucky tries. “Maybe it’ll be different?”

Steve sighs, but then he closes his eyes and buries his face against Bucky’s chest again with a frustrated wince. “You _are_ different,” he admits. “You’re sweet, and kind, and thoughtful… And _so_ fucking _hot…_ ”

Bucky chuckles, and he’s relieved to hear Steve echo him with a genuine laugh of his own from somewhere beneath his clavicle.

“And it’s true,” Steve continues, not so dejectedly, “that I’ve thought about what it would be like… To start over. To build a new life, somewhere else.”

“Then come with me,” Bucky urges. “Let’s start over together, me and you.”

Steve laughs as he tips his head back to look up at the ceiling. There’s a shimmer in his eyes, and he doesn’t look at Bucky, like he’s afraid of what would happen if he did. “Where would we even go?” he asks.  

“Depends on what you wanna see?”

Steve huffs out a laugh and shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “Paris?”

“Deal.”

Steve blinks at the resolve in Bucky’s voice. Finally, he turns his eyes to looks at him.

“Really?” he asks. He sounds like he’s asking whether Bucky’s gone and lost his mind.

“Of course really,” Bucky repelis. He leans down and kisses Steve’s cheek, hugging him close as he starts swaying him back and forth along with the music again. “Let’s go to Paris,” he murmurs against his temple. “We can go look at the Mona Lisa together. Rent a cabin in the countryside… Eat french food. In France.”

The sound of Steve’s laugh makes him feel like he’s floating, even as Steve shakes his head to rub his nose against Bucky’s jawline.

“You’re crazy,” Steve accuses, albeit without much heat.

“Only about you,” Bucky murmurs.

He grunts when Steve immediately gives his shoulder a shallow punch with his fist, and an indignant, “Oh, fuck off, that’s _so_ not fair.”

“What?” Bucky asks in genuine confusion, only to have Steve roll his eyes at him again.

“What do you mean ‘what’?” he retorts. “You can’t spring that cheesy shit on me _now._ Not while we’re slow dancing half-naked in your freaking motel room.”

Bucky smirks. “You like it,” he teases.

“Of course I _like_ it, you big dunce,” Steve mutters while burying his face against Bucky’s chest again. Sullenly, he wraps his arms around Bucky’s waist harder, huffing through his nose like he’s daring Bucky to put up a fight about it.

The room falls silent apart from the tunes from Bucky’s laptop. The two of them are still moving, even if barely so, but Bucky can’t tell whether the situation has become better or worse during the time the music’s been playing.

“If we go,” Steve says suddenly, instantly earning Bucky’s attention. “Like, if we _actually_ go… Do you promise you’ll have escargot with me?”

Bucky groans, showing that he really doesn’t find the thought of putting a snail inside his mouth very appealing. Then he sighs. “Are those your terms?” he asks. “We go on vacation, but only if I eat a slug?”

“Snail,” Steve corrects. “And yes.”

Bucky snorts. Then he smiles again as he leans in to brush his lips against Steve’s ear. _“On va voir,”_ he offers in a whisper, and instantly, Steve’s left hand leaves his lower back to grab around his ass.

“You little fucker,” he accuses indignantly. “You didn’t tell me you speak French!”

“Something I picked up,” Bucky says nonchalantly, only to yelp as Steve promptly pinches his left buttcheek through his underwear.

“You should do it more often,” Steve hums.

“Why?” Bucky asks cautiously.

“Because it turns me on.”

“Well, when you put it like that…” He gives Steve a curious look. “Do _you_ speak French?”

“Not since high school,” Steve says proudly. “And I wasn’t even good at it.”

“Then how will you know what I’m saying?”

“Guess you’re gonna have to mix it up with some body language ‘til you get your point across,” Steve offers. He doesn’t even try to sound innocent as he says it, and Bucky rolls his eyes as Steve’s other hand comes down to join the first on the other side of his ass with a reassuring, “Don’t worry, I’m a quick study.”

Bucky snickers, and as Steve leans up on his toes, prompting him for a kiss, Bucky gives it to him without delay.

Somehow, the promise of Bucky eating French cuisine seems to have made Steve relax a lot more than Bucky would’ve thought. They spend the rest of the night talking and joking about the future; of France, Paris, what to do there if they go. Steve paints a vividly cringeworthy image of Bucky in a mustache doing highly suggestive things to a baguette while wearing a red scarf around his neck, that Bucky finds just about as sexy as he finds it dignified. Steve nearly laughs his head off, however, and that makes it all worth it.

When they finally decide that it’s time to turn the lights out, they spend at least another forty minutes talking and sharing jokes in the dark, while stifling giggles under their breaths like they’re secrets. They kiss, _a lot_ , but they also keep it at that. It feels right, somehow.

By the time they actually manage to fall asleep, Bucky’s cradling Steve in his arms, lying on his back with Steve’s head resting in the dip between his chest and shoulder. Steve’s breath ghosts over his skin, turning alternately cool and warm with the steady ins and outs of his breathing. His body is warm, the weight of his palm comfortable and safe as it lies splayed over Bucky’s heart, and Bucky can’t believe he’s actually allowed to be this happy.

The last thing he feels before drifting away is the touch of Steve’s lips as Steve presses a final, drowsy kiss against the edge of his collarbone.

And then he’s sleeping.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * _"On va voir"_ is French for "We'll see," and is a reference to one of Steve Rogers' lines in _The Winter Soldier._


	13. 13

**** Bucky wakes up first. 

The second he comes to, he’s subjected to a moment of startled confusion as his mind registers that he’s not alone in the bed before his memories can supply him with  _ why  _ that is. His body tenses, and his arm gives a loud zing as he snaps his eyes open. However, as his gaze falls on the blond tuft of hair that’s curled up against his side, he instantly relaxes. 

Shifting closer, he turns over on his side and reaches out to brush away a strand of hair from Steve’s forehead. Steve doesn’t stir. His eyelashes fan over his cheekbones, and his mouth is closed. He looks slightly disgruntled, with the corners of his mouth tilted low and his lower lip pushed out into a slight pout, but Bucky suspects that’s just the way Steve looks when he’s asleep. 

It strikes him that he’s never seen Steve sleep before. It’s also the first time he’s woken up with someone like this. Truth, he’s the only one who’s awake, but there’s still a deep sense of serenity about having someone sleeping next to him that he’s never experienced alone. 

Steve’s quiet breathing is soothing, and Bucky soon closes his eyes with a deep sigh as he burrows closer to Steve’s sleeping form. Steve murmurs something in his sleep as Bucky wraps an arm around him, but he doesn’t wake. 

Bucky doesn’t manage to fall asleep again, but he does end up in a sort of in-between stage of sleep and wakefulness that’s actually quite pleasant. The heat of Steve’s body is seeping into his skin, and even though being this close has Bucky half-hard already, he doesn’t feel any need to act on it. He just wants to lie there with Steve in his arms and be contented for as long as he can. 

However, that doesn’t turn out to be as long as he would’ve hoped. 

After less than thirty minutes, Bucky’s stomach suddenly gives a loud, affronted grumble, and Bucky realizes that he’s actually pretty hungry.  According to logic he shouldn’t be, considering the staggering amount of food the two of them had indulged in the night before, but he is nonetheless. 

Quickly, he goes over the items he’s got stored in his mini fridge. Sadly, he reaches the conclusion that he has nothing that would pass as proper breakfast in there; not for him, and  _ especially _ not for a guest. 

He throws a glance at Steve, who still looks miles away from waking up anytime soon, and makes a decision. Careful not to wake him by accident, Bucky sidles away across the mattress and slowly stands up from the bed. He locates his shirt from last night and quickly pulls it on—he even rolls the sleeves up like he’d done the day before—along with a clean pair of jeans, before heading over to the little notepad that’s sitting on the desk. 

_ [Gone to get breakfast. Will be back soon. If you want, you can pick a movie for us to watch on the laptop for when I get back. ] _

He looks at the finished note. Then he glances at Steve, and signs the note with his name, and a rapidly scribbled heart that he puts down beneath the signature before he can change his mind. 

Exiting the motel room, he closes the door as quietly as he can, and then checks twice that that it’s properly locked before he heads down the stairs. There’s a nice little bakery just a few blocks away from the motel, and Bucky’s already planned what to get them by the time he’s reached the first intersection. 

The day is still young, even though they’ve slept for much longer than Bucky normally would. It makes Bucky wonder if that’s him being an unusually early riser, or if Steve’s just that much of a sleepyhead.

There aren’t that many people in line at the bakery—most likely because most people have already gone to work, seeing as it’s a Tuesday—and Bucky can place his order quicker than expected. He orders bagels. He also takes Steve’s allergies into special consideration when he does, just to make sure there are no nuts, or even seeds hidden somewhere in the food. It’s a weird obsession people appear to have; you want to look healthy, just order something unhealthy, sprinkle nuts and seeds all over it, and you’re good. It’s so stupid. Bucky doesn’t get it. 

He whistles on his walk back, and reaching the motel he takes the stairs leading to his floor with an unusual bounce to his steps. He unlocks the door as quietly as he can, not even allowing the keys to jingle, just in case Steve’s still asleep, and heads on inside.

Turns out Steve’s awake. He’s standing by the desk with Bucky’s laptop open in front of him, dressed in his trousers and undershirt.

“Hey,” Bucky greets as he closes and locks the door behind him. “I didn’t expect you to be up yet. Did you find my…note…” The end of his sentence shrivels up and dies on the tip of Bucky’s tongue. He stops dead in the middle of the room, and watches Steve slowly turn around. 

Steve’s holding a bundle of papers in his hand. Bucky doesn’t have to look at the open backpack on the floor to realize what they are. 

“The laptop said the battery was low,” Steve says listlessly. He’s not looking up, aiming the words at the papers in front of him as he speaks. “I couldn’t find the charger and figured it was in your backpack, so I—” He cuts himself off with a sigh as he closes his eyes, as if he realizes what he’s trying to explain doesn’t really matter at this point. He holds the top paper up, and opens his eyes to meet Bucky’s own. “This is you,” he says flatly.

Bucky swallows hard. “Yes…” he replies, and Steve drags a shaky breath into his lungs. 

“Wow,” he says hoarsely as he turns the paper around to look at it again. “All those times you told me you’d done bad things, and I thought you were just talking about ordinary crimes.” He snorts, shaking his head. “ _ Ordinary _ crimes…” he repeats, as if he can’t believe he just said that. “Scary how quick things come into perspective, huh?”

Bucky doesn’t reply. His muscles are coiled tight, all the way from his neck to what feels like his toes, and even though his heartbeat is steady, each throb of it threatens to punch a hole straight through his chest. He realizes that he’s gearing up for a fight, and for the first time that he can remember, he realizes that it frightens him. 

Steve is still looking at the page. It’s the one with Barnes’ photo on it, and Bucky can see the way Steve’s gaze flicks from side to side as he reads the information beneath it. Bucky barely resists the urge to flinch when suddenly Steve aims his gaze at him. 

“It says here that you’re a hundred years old,” he says. When Bucky nods, Steve lets out a low chuckle under his breath. “Well, congratulations on being so… well preserved.” He laughs again, but this time the sound morphs into a hopeless, choking noise in the back of his throat as he lifts his hand to cover his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Bucky, I—” 

“I was gonna tell you,” Bucky rasps. When Steve just nods, Bucky takes a step forward before he can stop himself. “I mean it,” he insists. “I’ve been wanting to tell you, but I—”

“You’re an assassin,” Steve says. 

Bucky freezes.

Steve’s looking at him with a frown Bucky can’t decipher, and suddenly there’s no air left in the room around him. He can’t breathe. Jesus, help him, he can’t breathe.

“You’ve killed people.”

Bucky swallows. His throat works around his windpipe, constricting it, and he nods.

“Yes.”

Steve looks away as he puts the page down on the stack once more, and Bucky takes another step forward. 

“I didn’t want to,” he says, pleading, hoping that Steve will understand. “I swear, Steve, whatever you’ve read, I never—”

“I know,” Steve says quietly. His words cut Bucky off as efficiently as if he’d been yelling them. “It’s alright, I get it.”  

_ He gets it? _

Bucky replays the sound of that sentence inside his head, but it still doesn’t make any sense. How can Steve possibly  _ get it? _ That Bucky’s a murderer. A killer. 

A monster.

Bucky waits for Steve to speak again. For him to tell him…something. Anything. Even if it’s just to scream about how disgusted he is about what Bucky’s done, anything would be better than the suffocating silence that’s already layered itself between them. However, Steve doesn’t say anything. He just stands there with the papers clutched in his hands, staring down at the front of the report with a look on his face that Bucky can’t read.  

He doesn’t look mad. But he’s clearly not happy. 

“So…” Bucky braves the quiet with a whisper. “Is this the part where you tell me to fuck off?”

Steve tears his gaze from the page to stare at him. “What?”

“You know…” Bucky says. “In the movies when a secret like this is revealed, normally there’s a fight.”

Steve blinks. And then his eyes go impossibly wide as his jaw falls open. “Bucky, I’m not angry,” he says sharply. He sounds genuinely shocked, and this time, it’s Bucky’s time to blink. 

“You’re not?” he asks.

“No!” Steve sounds appalled at the mere suggestion. “No, Jesus, I’m— Bucky, I’m  _ horrified! _ ”

That makes Bucky frown, at the same time as his stomach immediately ties itself into an anxious knot. “Why?” he asks, and in return Steve looks like he’s about to choke on his own spit.

“ _ Why?”  _ he squawks. He gestures to the papers in his hands. “Bucky, if what’s in here’s  true, then what they  _ did  _ to you, they—” Steve’s voice cracks. “I mean, with the way you can’t even talk about it, I knew it must’ve been bad, but  _ this, _ this is.. This is  _ beyond _ anything I could’ve imagined.” 

Bucky swallows tightly. Steve’s fingers are pressing into the stack so hard the pages are being dented, and there’s a wet shine in his eyes that Bucky can’t bear to look at. When Steve suddenly turns his gaze on Bucky’s metal arm, the urge to turn away is near overwhelming.

“This is why you won’t let me touch your arm, ain’t it?” Steve murmurs. “Because it reminds you of every time they did.”

Bucky can’t do it. He ducks his head to stare down at his feet, and he hears Steve’s breath stutter as he lets out a low, “Fuck…”

He also hears Steve’s feet shift, and realizes with a start that Steve’s stepping  _ closer. _

“Bucky, I… I don’t know what to say. Where to start, I— What they’ve done to you, it’s not even human. I mean, just the scars on your shoulder—”

“The scars are not HYDRA,” Bucky murmurs.

“What?”

Bucky straightens up at the confusion in Steve’s voice, and forces himself to look at Steve again. “HYDRA didn’t give me the scars,” he explains. “I did.”

“You…” 

Bucky nods to the papers. “Medical report number seven. Apparently, when I woke up and realized what they’d done, I tried to claw the arm off. They had to put me under. I don’t remember any of it, though.” 

“Jesus Christ…” Steve breathes. “That must’ve hurt something terrible, doing that to yourself.”

Bucky nods.

“Does it still hurt?” Steve asks, and Bucky’s heart thuds as Steve steps even closer. He’s approaching Bucky as one would a wounded animal, with his head canted down, his voice soft, and Bucky both hates it and craves it all at once. Bucky clenches his eyes shut as he struggles for breath. They’re already talking about it, but to actually say it out loud—to put a name to the things wrestling inside of him—is still as difficult as ever.

“It aches,” is what he manages.

Seconds later, the sensory receptors in his metal arm goes scorching against his nerve endings as they register fingers against his elbow. He yanks the arm away with a sharp gasp and a whirr of hydraulics, and Steve pulls his hand back.

“Don’t,” Bucky breathes. However, he’s not sure whether he’s berating Steve for the touch, or the sudden lack of it.  

Steve looks heartbroken.

Bucky knows that it's for his sake, even before Steve begins to speak.

“Bucky,” Steve says softly. “I don't care what you did. Or where you were before we met. I've read what's in here,  _ all _ of it, and any fool can tell that person isn't  _ you _ .” 

He waves the papers at Bucky’s face, as if by doing so he’ll be able to make Bucky see his point. Then he appears to catch himself as he quickly lowers the stack. Looking around aimlessly, he eventually turns around and puts the papers down on the desk behind him, before returning to stand in front of Bucky once more. 

“My point is, you obviously weren't lucid enough to have a say about what was going on,” he continues. “Dammit, you just told me they had to  _ sedate  _ you, just to keep you from hurting yourself. That doesn't exactly sound like a volunteer to me.”

“I still followed orders,” Bucky objects. “I still did whatever they wanted me to.”

“The Bucky I know would never have done the things those reports say,” Steve argues hotly. “That was someone else. This ‘Winter Soldier’ they keep talking about.”

Bucky breathes out a low hiss, gritting his teeth as the name leaves Steve’s mouth. “Don't say that name,” he orders.

“I'm not scared of a name,” Steve declares while meeting Bucky’s gaze head on. “A name has no power to do anything unless you allow it.”

Bucky’s shoulders slump, and Steve’s face softens the moment the last word leaves his mouth, most likely realizing how harsh that had sounded. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be talking about this like I can even begin to relate. What I mean is that those HYDRA people can’t hurt you anymore. They’re gone, you’ve said so yourself. And just saying a name won’t bring them back.”

“I know,” Bucky says. “I just… If I’m wrong, then it’s not worth taking the risk. If they find out, somehow, and they come for me—”

“If they try,” Steve says sternly, “and if they do, I’ll stop them.”

“Steve, these are  _ professionals. _ I know exactly how they work, and there’s nothing you can do to even slow them down.”

“I’ll kill them.”

The idea is absolutely ludicrous, and Bucky looks up to tell Steve as much. However, as he meets the look in Steve’s eye, he realizes that yes, Steve will. Even if he himself ends up dying by doing so, he will. His jaw is set, and there’s a sharp gleam of steel in his eye that Bucky hasn’t seen before.

As if he can read Bucky’s mind, Steve straightens up even further. “I swear it, Buck,” he says. “Every last one.”

Bucky shakes his head. There’s no use in arguing, he knows that, because Steve’s obviously made up his mind. Even so, the thought of putting Steve in harm's way, willing or not, makes Bucky feel sick to his stomach with guilt. And there are other dangers from the past, dangers other than HYDRA to worry about.

“Even if they don’t come,” he says, “then there’s still me.” He expects Steve to understand, but when Steve just frowns his way, Bucky winces. “Steve, I’m not  _ well _ ,” he exclaims. “I have nightmares almost every night. I wake up screaming, reaching for my gun before I even know where I am, and I— Dammit, I’m not  _ safe  _ to be around.” 

“What are you talking about?” Steve says with a snort. “I’ve been around you plenty of times, you’re perfectly safe.”

Bucky opens his mouth, but he can’t come up with an argument for that. Not right now, with his brain going amok inside his skull. For a moment, he wishes that Barnes, or even the Soldier would come and help him figure out what to say, but they’re both silent. In fact, he can’t even feel them anymore.

“I could hurt you,” he whispers. Pleads.

“Yes. You could.” Steve steps forward, once again with that familiar look of determination on his face that Bucky’s come to know so well. “And I don’t care.”

“But, I—”

“Hey,” Steve says. “What’s happening here? Last night you couldn’t wait to run away to France with me, but now you seem like all you want is to break things off. What’s going on? Did you change your mind or something?”

“Of course not,” Bucky murmurs.

“Then why are you fighting me?” Steve cants his head to catch Bucky’s gaze, but Bucky can only hold it for a second before he has to look away. Steve leans back, frowning. But it’s not a frown of confusion as much as it’s a frown of empathy. 

“Is it really that hard?” he asks quietly. “To believe that I still like you, despite knowing your past?”

Oh, that question strikes a chord. It vibrates through Bucky’s limbs, deep down into his very core, and Bucky bites back the whine he feels clawing itself up his throat, chased there by the tremor inside.

He sees Steve reach out again, slowly, tentatively. This time, gritting his teeth doesn’t help. The whimper falls from his lips nonetheless as Steve slides his fingers over the plating on the back of his left hand. 

“Is it so hard,” Steve murmurs, “to believe that I actually like  _ all  _ of you?”

Bucky wishes he could close his eyes to the tender way Steve moves his hand over his, but he can’t bring himself to do it. He can feel the touch through his sensors—not like a normal arm would, with skin, and flesh, and nerves—but he feels the pressure, and it is soft, tender. Gentle.

Nothing like the harsh grips and prying fingers that had come before. Not the numbing sting of electricity used to immobilize him, or the searing pain from a soldering iron grazing the wrong circuit. 

He stares, helpless as Steve slowly brings his hand up to press lips to the tips of Bucky’s fingers, one by one. The touch tingles, and Bucky can’t stop his breath from catching at the first touch, which earns him a sharp, attentive look from Steve. Always observant. Always caring.

Reaching Bucky’s pinky, Steve lifts Bucky’s hand higher to kiss at his wrist. The way he slides his other palm along the length of the forearm to trail deft fingertips over the plating of Bucky’s elbow has Bucky trembling where he stands. He can’t feel much, because the arm wasn’t built for this kind of sensory input, but just seeing Steve touch it—touch  _ him _ like  _ that _ —does things to Bucky’s body that he hadn’t been prepared for.

His breathing has turned heavy, and with every breath he takes he feels his lungs shrink inside his chest, turning him lightheaded. When Steve starts kissing his way down the inside of his arm, Bucky fails to hold back a moan, and then Steve’s  _ licking _ at the plate nearest to Bucky’s elbow, causing him to nearly choke on his own breath. 

“Can you feel that?” Steve asks.

“Yes,” Bucky pants, swallowing down another moan. “It’s weird. But I feel it.”

“Good weird, or bad weird?”

Gently, Steve runs his fingernails along the back of Bucky’s metal tricep through his shirt, and Bucky yelps. Then Bucky groans, and the bag of bagels promptly hits the floor when Steve repeats the motion on the inside of his bicep a split second later.

“Well,” Steve says with a nonchalant look at the bag by Bucky’s feet. “I guess that answers that question.” 

Bucky looks at him. Steve’s smiling, like he does when he’s just found something that he plans to exploit. Bucky tries, and fails to suppress the shiver of excitement that runs down his spine when he meets the look out of the other man’s eye.

“Come,” Steve coaxes. He gives Bucky’s wrist a gentle tug towards the bed, pointing to the edge of the mattress. “Sit here.”

Bucky does as he’s told and sinks down on the bed. Steve climbs on after him to kneel by Bucky’s left side. Bucky’s heart is still beating hard, and as Steve leans in to gently unbutton his shirt, he can’t help the excited flutter it makes.

Steve undoes the buttons on his shirt, and then goes to work on rolling down his sleeves. It gives Bucky a weird sense of deja vû; familiar, yet horribly new at the same time. Once Steve’s done, he slides the shirt off of Bucky’s shoulders and tosses the garment over the edge of the bed. As he ducks his head to press a kiss against the star covering Bucky’s deltoid, Bucky curls his fingers into the bedspread with a sharp clang of metal. 

“Relax,” Steve mumbles, even as he moves to kiss up the back of Bucky’s shoulder. The sensors there aren’t as sensitive—most likely because the perception of touch in the fingers and hands have higher priority—and so when the first touch of lips brush against his actual skin, Bucky gasps out loud and flinches with surprise. 

“It’s okay.” Steve kisses him again, at the top of the shoulder this time. “Just breathe.”

Bucky clenches his teeth as he allows Steve to continue his work. He’s trembling from how hard he’s clutching at the bedding beneath him, and he knows that there’s really no point in doing so, but he can’t stop. Steve’s kissed him a million times, in a million ways, yet it is here where he can barely feel it that it manages to ruin him the most. 

Steve kisses each scar, each furled tendril of skin that webs across Bucky’s shoulder; first down the line of his back, and then back to his chest. Each kiss is soft. Every slide of lips tender, and the way Steve lets his mouth linger against Bucky’s skin after each one is affectionate to the point Bucky feels tears form in his eyes.

Then Steve starts tracing the scars stretching across his pectoral muscle, and before Bucky knows it, Steve’s licking over his left nipple in a languid swipe that leaves him shaking. Steve gives the center of his chest a light push of his palm, and Bucky goes with it willingly. He lies down on his back while Steve drapes himself over him, straddling his thigh and weighing him down as he continues his path down Bucky’s chest. 

Flicking his tongue over Bucky’s nipple, Steve strokes the palm of his hand up Bucky’s other side to squeeze at his pectoral muscle. Then he abandons Bucky’s chest completely as he returns his focus to Bucky’s hand, and carefully sucks a metal digit into his mouth. 

Bucky’s moan is an echo of Steve’s own, and as Steve rocks his pelvis down against the thick muscle of Bucky’s thigh, Bucky can feel the sound multiply through the plating of his finger. He’s so focused on watching the silver gleam slide in and out between Steve’s lips that he forgets Steve has fingers of his own. He’s quickly reminded of them, however, when Steve suddenly begins to tease his nipples again, both at the same time. Steve rolls them beneath the pads of his thumbs, pinches them between his thumbs and index fingers, before rapidly flicking his fingers back and forth over them. He teasing him until Bucky’s damn near incoherent, thrusting blindly against the thin air next to Steve’s body in search of friction for the hard-on tenting in his jeans. 

“Steve,” he grunts. “Enough.”

Steve releases Bucky’s middle finger with a slight pop that Bucky’s brain decides to be far more lewd than it probably is. 

“You want me to stop?” he asks.

“Not stop,” Bucky hisses. “Just…” He thrusts up again, pointedly. It makes Steve smirk, and he kisses the metal knuckles of Bucky’s hand before letting it go in favor of leaning down to kiss at his neck.

“I want you,” Steve murmurs. Trailing his fingers down the plane of Bucky’s stomach, he makes Bucky squirm, right before cupping him lightly through his jeans. “Do you want me?”

“Always,” Bucky admits readily. 

Steve hums against his ear while walking light fingers over Bucky’s fly. Bucky’s cock twitches inside his underwear when Steve nibbles at his earlobe.  

“You know what else I want?” Steve whispers, and Bucky shakes his head as Steve pops the top button of his jeans. Steve rocks his hips down, groaning against Bucky’s jawline under his breath. “I want you to make love to me.”

_ Make love. _

Bucky had used that very same phrase the night before. He knows what it means, the significance of the request Steve’s making. 

“Alright,” he rasps. “Yeah, of course.”

Steve chuckles—a low, astonished gasp against Bucky’s ear—and then he’s kissing him. He nips at Bucky’s lip as he pulls open the rest of Bucky’s zipper, and then he moves back just far enough to drag his own shirt over his head, before diving back down. 

Bucky tries to keep up, but with the way Steve’s kissing him, that turns out to be easier said than done. He decides just to go with it for now as he lets Steve take control of the kiss while he tries to fumble his pants off. Once Steve gets what Bucky’s trying to do, he too begins to undress. Bucky gets naked first, and eagerly joins hands with Steve to help rid him of his clothes with whatever focus his lustridden mind can muster. 

He’s embarrassingly hard already. However, looking down he can see that Steve’s cock is standing thick as well, curling up towards his stomach, begging to be touched. 

Bucky only gives it a minor thought. Then he reaches out to let the tips of his left hand slide over the head of Steve’s cock in a light flutter. Steve gasps and grabs his wrists, yanking his hand in closer.

The sentiment is obvious. 

Steve shudders as Bucky takes a shallow hold around his shaft and begins to stroke him. He goes slow. The metal slides over the skin smoothly, unhindered. The groves between the panels are not deep, and the edges have been rounded by many years of grinding against one another, so there’s no risk that he’ll pinch, or cause accidental damage to the skin. In fact, the uneven surface appears to be the downright opposite of uncomfortable. Steve wriggles against him as he clings around Bucky’s neck and shoulder, and every time Bucky’s palm smoothes over the head of him, he gives a violent shiver. 

“Is it good?” Bucky asks, wanting to make sure.

“It’s ‘mazing…” Steve answers dazedly. He buries a moan into the dip of Bucky’s clavicle as his fingers twitch over the skin of Bucky’s bicep. “Fuck,  I want you so bad…” he gasps. He jerks his hips forward as Bucky twists his wrist, gripping tighter. “You know that right?”

“I think so?” Bucky replies. He rubs his thumb in an experimental circle over Steve’s frenulum, and he finds that he enjoys the way Steve shivers as he does. “Unless you’ve got a specific way in mind?”

Steve breathes out a laugh, and then moans again. “No specifics,” he declares. “Just you, inside of me. Preferably within the next ten minutes.” Rolling his hips, he presses his lips against Bucky’s neck with a low whine. “I’ve been holding myself back for so long, I can barely stand another second.”

“Holding back?” Bucky stills the movement of his hand. 

“Yeah?” Steve sits up, frowning at him. “Why, is that strange?”

“Yes,” Bucky says. “Or, no, not really, but I… I don’t know, I just didn’t think you wanted to. Like that.”

“Are you crazy?” Steve asks. “I’ve wanted nothing else since the first time we got naked together.” He rocks pointedly into the shallow grip of Bucky’s hand, licking his lips when Bucky starts moving again.”I just… I didn’t suggest it, because I was scared if I let you close like that, I wouldn’t— Jesus, god, that’s good… That I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from… you know, making it intimate.”

“Okay,” Bucky says. He doesn’t stop stroking, and Steve’s eyelids flutter as he nods, both confirming and urging him on at the same time.

“Uh-huh,” he hums. “There was just something about you that…drew me in. Right from the start, I couldn’t help myself.” Slumping forward slightly, Steve catches himself with a hand against Bucky’s bicep, hips twitching. “I didn’t— Oh, fuck… I didn’t want to let you get that close. I’ve been down that road before, and it didn’t end very well.”

He straightens up as Bucky slows his hand again, looking him in the eye with a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “But then you went and got yourself close anyway. In different ways.” 

“So,” Bucky says as he slows his hand completely. “You didn’t want to have  _ that  _ kind of sex with me, because…that’s the kind of sex you really wanted?”

“Well, when you put it like that it just sounds stupid.” Steve snorts, but then he sighs. “What can I say? Doing that kinda stuff with a person you’re already attracted to… The endorphins have a tendency to trick your brain into thinking there might be something more to it. And if I’d done that with you—allowed myself to get invested in you—and it had turned out  _ not  _ to be something more, I would’ve probably ended up hating myself a little.” 

“Well, I’m no expert,” Bucky says. “But asking someone to ask you out on a date sounds suspiciously like investment to me.” 

“Brilliantly observed, Sherlock,” Steve mutters. 

“So does that mean there is something more to it, then?”

“Of course there is,” Steve replies. “What, you think I wanted to go on a date just to eat expensive pasta and watch cars blow up on the big screen?”

Bucky chuckles, but moves his hand away to brace himself on the mattress as he leans in to push their brows together in an affectionate head bump. 

“You know,” he says softly while rubbing the tip of his nose against Steve’s. “I don’t really remember what  _ something more  _ is supposed to feel like. But if I did, I honestly think I would remember it having felt a lot like this.”

“Good,” Steve whispers. He gives a quiet chuckle. “It really would’ve sucked if I was the only one who’d ended up falling in love.”

Bucky blinks as his stomach makes what he can only compare to a full sumersault inside his body. Then he smiles. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That would’ve been awful.”

He laughs as Steve gives a loud huff and aims a hard shove against his chest. Bucky catches him by the wrist before he can reach him, and Steve yelps as Bucky yanks him in against his chest and rolls them over. Bucky comes out on top, as planned, and he doesn’t waste any time grinding himself down between Steve’s splayed out legs.

The sound Steve makes is gorgeous. So gorgeous Bucky has to kiss him, right this instant, or his heart is going to come crashing straight out of his chest. The kiss he plants on Steve’s lips is most likely harder than Steve expects, because he groans in surprise, and throws his arms around Bucky’s neck to steady himself as he presses his pelvis up. Bucky feels the wet slide from the tip of Steve’s cock rub against his abs, and quickly reaches down to grab around the swell of Steve’s ass to drag the two of them even closer together. 

“Christ,” Steve gasps, shuddering all over. “Jesus, you’ve got hands like goddamn shovels.”

Bucky grunts as he moves his mouth down to nip at Steve’s jaw and throat. 

“I mean that in a good way,” Steve clarifies breathlessly. “I like the way they just scoop me up like that. Big and strong…” He groans again when Bucky replies by giving his ass a good squeeze, and then curses under his breath when Bucky bends his head down to lick over his right nipple. Bucky gives the hard nub a pull with his teeth, just to make Steve make that sound again, and then he decides that enough is enough. 

He pushes himself back to sit on his knees while kissing over Steve’s stomach. He presses his lips to the sharp jut of Steve’s hip, before nuzzling his cock to mouth at its base. The action elicits another curse from above his head. It makes him smile, knowing such a simple thing as his mouth is capable of provoking such reactions. He kisses the tip of his cockhead before sitting up, and as Steve sends an indignant glare his way, he gestures towards Steve’s lower body with a pointed arch of his eyebrow.

“I thought you had a request,” he reminds him sweetly. Steve’s frown immediately smoothes out into a look of silent anticipation as Bucky puts both hands on Steve’s knees, pushing them apart slightly. 

“So how do you want me to do this?” Bucky asks.

“There’s a condom in my wallet,” Steve says. “For your fingers.” He looks around. “Do you have anything to slicken the way?”

“I’ve got lube?” Bucky supplies with a shrug, which immediately makes Steve turn his gaze back on him with a smirk. 

_ “You  _ bought lube?” he asks. For some reason he sounds amused.

“Yeah.” 

Steve’s smirk grows into a grin as he bites down and pulls flirtatiously at his bottom lip with his teeth. “Does that mean y ou play with yourself when I’m not around?”

The question is obviously meant to embarrass Bucky somehow, but he doesn’t see in what way. “Of course,” he replies warily. “You taught me how.” 

“That I did,” Steve agrees, still with that smug smile on his face. “Maybe you can show me that someday?”

“Show you what?”

“How you touch yourself.”

“I could do that,” Bucky says hoarsely, knowing full well that the sudden jerk of his cock has already revealed exactly how much he’d be willing to let Steve watch him do that. He quickly throws a leg over the edge of the mattress as he stands up from the bed to get Steve’s wallet out of his discarded pants. He finds it quickly enough, and when he turns around to return to the bed, his gaze falls on the way Steve is lazily teasing his fingers over the head of his cock.  

Bucky climbs back into bed, and calmly, but very firmly, moves Steve’s hand away by the wrist, looking him in the eye as he does so. “That’s not your job,” he says. 

“Then maybe you should get to doing yours, and I wouldn’t have to,” Steve shoots back. Bucky looks down at him, and Steve’s chest heaves in excitement as Bucky cants his head to regard him in silence.

“You talk big for someone about to have another man’s fingers up his ass,” Bucky points out.

“Bad habit,” Steve replies. However, as Bucky starts tearing the condom pack open, Steve’s gaze drops to his hands. “There’s another thing,” he says, and the tone of his voice makes Bucky pause what he’s doing. 

Steve’s suddenly blushing. His cock is still standing hard and proud between his legs, but his posture has changed. He looks hesitant. 

“What is it?” Bucky asks. 

“I…” Steve licks his lips, bracing himself as he drags in a  breath. “I want you to open me up with your other hand.” His gaze makes a quick swipe to Bucky’s face, before darting away again, just as fast. “You know… The metal one.”


	14. 14

****Bucky’s fingers abruptly curl around the foil pack in his hands. Steve swallows hard.

“You don’t have to if it makes you feel uncomfortable,” he adds quickly. “But I’ve sort of been thinking about what it would be like, and… I just think it would be really nice.”

“Nice,” Bucky echoes quietly.

He looks down at his left palm.

He’s conflicted, he can’t deny that. Steve’s never made it a secret that he likes Bucky’s artificial arm. The way he’s looked at it. Drawn it. Touched it… But Steve doesn’t— _Hadn’t_ known what this arm had done at the time he’d said and done that. Hadn’t know how many people had died because of it when he’d called it pretty. This arm; it’s a physical manifestation of everything the Winter Soldier had ever stood for, and yet Steve craves its touch as if it were something precious. Something valuable.

And because of that, Bucky can’t hate it. Not like he once had.

He flexes his fingers slowly. The mechanics whirr and hum as the digits bend, and when Bucky glances up, he finds Steve staring at them with a look in his eyes that makes Bucky’s stomach flip.

“Alright,” he says.

“Are you sure?” Steve asks. He’s looking at Bucky the same way he does during their sessions, when he asks whether Bucky really wants to keep going. And Bucky nods in silence, and slowly tears the foil packet open.

He pulls the condom out and gathers the fingers of his left hand into a point to roll the condom down over them. He’s seen Steve do it countless of times, and the slick of the lubrication already covering the latex makes it easy. He makes sure not to pinch the condom in the deeper grooves of the digits as he nods towards the bedside table.

“The lube is in the drawer. Next to the gun,” he adds when Steve leans out to reach for the handle.

Steve pauses, and gives him a look over his shoulder. His eyes are filled with questions, but then he simply cocks his head to the side with a low, “Okay…” before pulling the drawer out and reaching inside.

Bucky positions himself between Steve’s legs. Accepting the bottle when Steve hands it to him, Bucky pops the cap and drizzles some of the content onto his fingers. Then he gives the bottle back to Steve who closes it and puts it on top of the bedside table.

“You remember how to do it, right?” Steve asks as he lies down on his back and puts a pillow underneath his head.

“Slowly,” Bucky confirms. “I remember.”

Steve nods. He drops his head onto the pillow, but he doesn’t close his eyes. Not until Bucky starts to circle the furled skin of his entrance to spread out the lube. Then his eyelids slowly begin to slip, and by the time Bucky pushes the first finger inside, Steve got his eyes fully shut, but his mouth slightly open.

Bucky stays true to his word. He goes slow, with far more care than he probably would’ve with his other hand. Even though he’s never once done so in the past, he’s worried that he’ll accidentally end up hurting Steve unless he stays absolutely focused.

The already meager sensory input in his fingers is dulled by the condom, but when Bucky feels like Steve’s loose enough for more, the second finger slips inside without trouble. As he twists his wrist, he braces himself on the mattress by Steve’s hip, and Steve arches his back with a low gasp when the first press of fingers rubs against his prostate.

Bucky’s only done this once before—that time on Steve’s couch—but he can’t help noticing the change in Steve’s responsiveness nonetheless. He can’t tell if it’s because he’s gotten better at stimulating Steve this way, if it’s Steve who’s more relaxed, or if it’s because he’s using this hand. It doesn’t really matter.

Steve’s rambling steadily under his breath while Bucky opens him up. Bucky hears his own name a few times, mixed with the ardent praise and broken curses that tumble from Steve’s lip everytime Bucky shifts his fingers. Bucky listens with his pulse throbbing through his veins as Steve tells him, one gasping moan at a time, how hot Bucky’s touch is making him. How Steve can’t wait to have Bucky inside of him. How he wants Bucky to take him apart and blow his mind until he can’t think straight anymore.

Bucky’s not aware that he’s sped up the movement of his hand until Steve’s suddenly squirming on the bed, gasping hard as his abs twitch along with the eager movements of his hips, like he can’t breathe right. However, as Bucky crooks his fingers, Steve suddenly arches and pushes his head into the pillow with a choking sound in the back of his throat as he reaches between his legs to grab blindly for Bucky’s arm.

“Fuck…!” he whimpers. “Oh, god, wait. Wait, I can’t— _Jesus._ ”

Bucky stills, locking his joints in place while waiting for Steve’s body to relax again. Eventually, Steve exhales, and his body slumps down against the mattress with a tightly held sigh.

“Holy shit,” he pants. “That was too close,”

Bucky glances down when his sensors give a slight tingle, noticing how Steve’s stroking the plating of his arm with the tip of his fingers. He’s barely able to reach it, and yet the touch is as tender as anything Bucky’s ever felt before.

“You really like the arm,” he mumbles under his breath, “don’t you?”

“I may have fantasized about it, once or twice,” Steve admits in a murmur. He shrugs. “It’s a kink I didn’t expect to develop, but here we are.”

“Here we are,” Bucky agrees. He gives his fingers a little wiggle, smirking when it makes Steve groan. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” Steve groans. “Yeah, I’m good.” He grunts as Bucky pulls the fingers out, and Bucky removes the condom by carefully turning it inside out and tying it together. Adding another few drops of lube, Bucky then lines himself up, but as he glances down he’s suddenly struck with the reality of what they’re actually about to do.

“Here,” Steve whispers, sitting up a little. Bucky’s breath catches when Steve reaches down and drags his fingers along the bottom of his shaft, urging him forward. He helps guide him right, fingertips whispering encouragement as Bucky eases himself inside.

The warmth is overwhelming. The clench of muscles ever more so. Steve’s body draws him in as the head of his cock slips past the first tight ring of resistance, and he hangs his head, gritting his teeth just to keep himself together. It’s different from being inside Steve’s mouth. Better, at the same time as it’s not. Different, yet painstakingly similar.

It feels like forever until Steve’s hand suddenly shifts to push against his hip, Steve urgently whispering for him to, “Stop, wait, wait…” Bucky does, even though the need to move is enough to drive him out of his mind.

“Fuck you and your big dick,” Steve mutters under his breath. He frowns slightly as his fingers wrap around Bucky’s hip, still holding him off. “This part doesn’t usually take this long.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Bucky asks.

“Well, right now it is,” Steve answers with a grunt, “‘cause I sorta can’t wait for you to pound me into this mattress of yours.”

Bucky hangs his head down to hide a chuckle against Steve’s neck. As an afterthought, he also kisses him there, before adding a second kiss about half an inch to the left. He keeps that up, kissing and licking over Steve’s throat and neck, until Steve’s moaning loud enough for Bucky to feel it reverberate through his own chest.

“You’re making this whole staying still business very difficult,” Steve scolds, although without much sincerity. Bucky doesn’t reply. He just smirks as he gives a shallow tilt of his hips, just enough to make Steve gasp beneath him and dig the fingers harder into his skin.

“Holy shit,” Steve hisses. “Fuck, you’re hitting that almost too well.”

“You want me to do it again?” Bucky asks. “And please, say yes, because I’m not sure how much longer I can wait.”

“Yes,” Steve groans. “God, yes, please.”

The relief of finally being allowed to move is damn near enough to make Bucky forget that he still has to be gentle, but he catches himself at the last second. So instead of simply shoving himself further into the deep, snug heat that is Steve’s body, he slowly draws back, just a little, before just as gently pushing back in. He does it again, a bit further this time, and groans into the crook of Steve’s neck when he feels Steve’s muscles clamp down around his cock.

Bit by bit, the thrusts grow longer and harder, but Bucky makes sure to stay at the same pace. He revels in each movement; to feel Steve so close to him. He can feel the way Steve’s hands card over his back as he clings to him, both legs wrapped tight around Bucky’s hips. Every time Bucky pushes in, Steve’s voice rises up into quiet gasps and moans as his fingers twitch over Bucky’s skin.

Suddenly, Steve lifts his hips to meet one of Bucky’s thrusts, and the sudden pleasure of their combined movement makes Bucky freeze with a surprised croak. When Steve pulls his pelvis back to do it again, Bucky reaches down and grabs around Steve’s hip with a sharp zing of his left arm, keeping him still.

“You didn’t like that?” Steve asks, by the cocky sound of his voice already knowing the answer.

“Oh, I did,” Bucky assures him anyway. “But if you plan to keep that up, I don’t think you’re gonna.”

“That good, huh?”

“That good,” Bucky agrees. He leans back, sitting up taller to kneel on the mattress as he yanks Steve in closer by a solid grip around the backs of his knees. Steve moans from the sudden movement, and Bucky watches as he pulls both of his hands over his head to fist the hair at the back while deliriously twisting his head from side to side.

Bucky tries his best to keep the pace slow, but it’s not easy. Especially not in this position. It’s harder to keep the tingle under control like this. Steve’s body feels so good, and Bucky wants nothing but to relish in it as much as he possibly can. It’s nothing like the simple touch of a hand, as welcome as it may be, or the dry drag of sheets from humping the mattress. Bucky has to pause every so often to keep the blazing edge of his pleasure on the horizon where it belongs, or he’s gonna end up disappointing them both.

Apparently, his struggle shows, because the next time he looks at Steve’s face, Steve meets his gaze. Then fingertips are ghosting against the plating of Bucky’s index finger, and the tender affection of the touch makes Bucky groan in spite of himself.

“You doing okay?” Steve asks between panting breaths.

“Define okay,” Bucky replies in a grunt, just before biting back another groan. Nonetheless, Steve smiles at him.

“You wanna switch places?” he asks.

“Places?” Bucky echoes dumbly.

“Yeah. You lie down and I get on top of you.”

“Why?”

“ _Because,_ genius,” Steve replies, “I wanna ride you, and I can’t do that from down here.”

_Oh._

Admitting that Steve has a point, Bucky carefully pulls out. He goes with it as Steve guides him to lie down on his back in the middle of the bed. He looks on, more turned on than he can remember ever having been, as Steve straddles him and reaches behind himself to take a gentle hold around the base of Bucky’s cock, once again guiding him right.

It’s almost worse this way. To see Steve lower himself down, and for Bucky to feel his own cock slowly sink into his body, inch by glorious inch. Steve’s eyes flutter closed, and his throat bobs as the head of Bucky’s cock slips inside, and Bucky can’t stand to watch it. He twists his head into the pillow with a trembling moan as he grabs for Steve’s thighs, holding on to him with one shaking, and one whirring hand. His cock twitches when Steve lets it go, and as he does, Steve shudders and moans above him.

To make matters worse, Steve doesn’t seem to have any problems keeping a slow pace. He lifts himself up and down while bracing his hands against Bucky’s chest for leverage. Sometimes, he pauses to simply play with Bucky’s nipples, and the struggle to remain still when he does is downright cruel. Steve appears to like it, though, and Bucky knows Steve doesn’t need to ask him to know Bucky does too. He keeps stroking his open palms over Bucky’s body; moves them down his sides, and reaches behind himself to grab over the top of Bucky’s thigh. Using his fingernails, Steve creates a trail of goosebumps as he moves them over the sensitive skin of his groin in shallow scratches, and before Bucky can help it, he’s begun to circle his hips to push his pelvis up against Steve’s body in a lazy but steady rhythm.

It quickly becomes evident that Steve likes that too.

He stops stroking in favor of simply holding on when Bucky increases the force behind his movements enough to make Steve sway with each thrust. As Steve grips over Bucky’s shoulders, Bucky reaches up to grab around Steve’s waist with both hands. He lets his palms slot over the narrow span of Steve’s hip bones with a lazy squeeze, before smoothing them up towards his chest. Brushing the back of his metal knuckles against Steve’s nipples, Bucky catches Steve’s eye. Next thing Steve rocks his hips down with a spasmic shove as Bucky rolls both of the flushed peaks between his fingers.

Steve’s right, Bucky thinks. He _does_ have big hands. At least they look pretty big when they’re framing Steve’s chest like this.

He braves another light pinch to Steve’s nipples, and then moves the hands down to grab around his waist again. The joints in his arm whirr as he helps Steve move, and it doesn’t take long before their combined breathing has gone ragged as they move together. The bed creaks beneath them, and the air of the room fills with the rustle of sheets and the slick noise of movement. It’s soft. Tender. Breathless, and trembling.

It’s intimacy, in the most primal sense.

When Bucky reaches up to pull Steve down by the back of his neck to mash their lips together, Steve groans into his mouth as he kisses him back. Steve’s cock rubs against Bucky's abs as they continue to move, and after a minute, the precome leaking from the slit has formed a slick path over his skin. Steve’s begun to whine into the kiss, and he’s lost all focus on what his mouth is supposed to be doing as his lips move without words against Bucky’s.

“You getting close?” Bucky whispers, right before stealing another kiss from Steve’s mouth as Steve nods frantically.

“You wanna come?” Bucky asks.

Again, Steve nods, before peeking his eyes open, just far enough to meet Bucky’s gaze. “If you come with me…” he breathes.

Bucky doesn’t bother to nod. He simply picks up the pace as he takes a firm grip around Steve’s body and lifts him up to hold him an inch or two over his pelvis. It’s easy—would’ve been easy even without the enhanced arm—and as Bucky shoves himself up, Steve chokes on his own voice as he clutches around Bucky’s wrist. For a moment, Bucky thinks Steve’s going to tell him to stop, but when he begins to slow down, Steve whines again and rolls his hips, hard.

 

 

Bucky doesn’t need any more encouragement than that.

He thrusts up again, and this time Steve groans out loud and throws his head back when Bucky drives into him. Bucky keeps going, finding a rhythm, but without losing the steady, lazy pace from before.

Before long, Steve’s fingers are digging into the skin of Bucky’s forearm, and Bucky can feel the wet smear of precome that dribbles onto his stomach every time he hits Steve at just the right angle.

“Just fuck me,” Steve begs. He’s got his eyes closed again, and his head tipped back to the ceiling as he fights to move, helpless against the iron grip of Bucky’s hands. “Please, please, just fuck me.”

“No,” Bucky says. He thrusts into Steve’s body one more time, and then pauses.

“Please,” Steve whimpers. “Please, Buck, don’t stop. I’m so fucking _close._ ”

Bucky growls. Fuck, he likes it when Steve begs. It’s a realization that comes to him unbidden, but it’s true nonetheless. He likes that desperate noise that seems to stick in the back of Steve’s throat; when he sounds like he’s just about ready to sob as he speaks. It makes Bucky’s head swirl.

“I’m not gonna fuck you,” he pants. He swipes his thumb over Steve’s skin in a soothing crescent before thrusting into him again. “I’m gonna make love to you, remember?

And there’s the sound again. That wet, deliriously mewl that falls from Steve’s lips as he makes another futile attempt to push himself back over Bucky’s cock. When he fails, Steve hangs his head with a whine to watch from under hooded eyelids how another gleaming pearl of precome trickles down the length of his shaft.

The sight makes Bucky moan, and he picks up the pace, just a little. Just enough to make the heat in his gut flare up to lick along his spine in white-hot tendrils. Shit, he’s not gonna last much longer.

“Bucky,” Steve whispers sharply. “Bucky, I—” His words are cut off by a keening sob, and Bucky quickly lifts his right hand from Steve’s hip to gently cup his cheek, chasing after his gaze as Steve clutches the hand hard. Bucky nods, and unhinges the locks of his metal arm, nodding to show Steve that it’s okay to move. Steve doesn’t waste time rocking himself down, moving faster as he rolls his pelvis over Bucky’s cock, using the grip he still has on Bucky’s arm to ride him.

“I’m gonna come,” he gasps. “Oh, shit, I can’t hold back.”

“I know,” Bucky says with another nod.

“Bucky… Oh, god, Bucky…” Steve lets go of Bucky’s arm to brace himself against his chest, and Bucky swipes his thumb over Steve’s bottom lip, hearing his own moan morph into a croak as the pleasure builds inside him. Steve’s eyes are glassy, and his gaze has trouble searching out Bucky’s own as his cock gives a sudden hard twitch against his abdomen.

“I love you,” Steve breathes. “Oh, fuck, sweetheart, I love you so m—”

Suddenly, Steve’s jaw goes slack. His voice dies with a silent gasp, and feeling the first, blazing hot wave wash over his senses, Bucky pulls Steve down to kiss him, one more time before his vision whites out. His hips move of their own volition as they give a final series of lazy thrusts. Bucky growls into Steve’s mouth in time with the hightide of his orgasm as it rips through him.

The world fades away, like so many times before, and all that matters is the pleasure, and the heat of Steve’s body as it slumps down on top of him, shaking and twitching. Bucky keeps holding on, and as he wraps his arms around Steve’s trembling shoulders, Steve’s breath tickles his ear as he lets out another shuddering sigh. However, even though the seconds tick by, Steve’s shaking doesn’t stop. It’s not until a sharp gasp for breath, followed by a muffled sob which alerts Bucky to the fact that something’s not right, and he realizes with a start that the tremors he’s feeling are not just from the aftershock, but that Steve’s actually _crying._

“Are you alright?” Bucky asks worriedly. “Did I do something wrong, did I hurt you?”

“No,” Steve says with a sniffle. “No, you were perfect.” He lifts his head and presses his lips to Bucky’s cheek with a noise that comes out somewhere between a laugh and a soft sob. “You’re always perfect.” Steve’s chest heaves for another deep breath as Steve lifts his hand to wipe at his eyes. “Damn, look at me here. If I was any more of a sap, I’d be needing my inhaler right about now.”

“Did you bring it?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah, it’s in my pocket. But this isn’t an actual attack,” he promises. “Emotions just caught me off guard. They’ll pass.”

Bucky lets out a discreet sigh of relief, and then smiles as he nuzzles the side of Steve’s temple. “Not all of them, I hope.”

Steve laughs, shaking his head. “No,” he says softly. “Definitely not all of them.” He slumps down over Bucky’s chest, and snuggles closer with an affectionate squeeze around Bucky’s shoulders. In return, Bucky tugs him in by the grip he keeps around his waist with the metal hand while petting Steve’s hair softly with the other.

“I love you too, you know,” Bucky murmurs, and when Steve pulls back to look at him, Bucky feels his cheeks flush. “You said you loved me,” he clarifies defensively. “I didn’t reply. It felt rude to just leave it like that.”

Steve looks at him, long and steady. “Were all the guys back in the 40’s as adorably polite as you?” he asks eventually, and Bucky snorts, looking away.

“Adorable isn’t really the word I would’ve used to describe myself.”

“Well, too bad, because you are.”

Moving to sit up taller, Steve gives a languid stretch of his back. Then he grimaces. “Dammit… Maybe we should’ve saved that condom for this instead. We’re gonna make a mess of your bed.”

“I can call for new sheets,” Bucky says simply. “It’s still early. The cleaning staff will come by in a few hours.”

“Handy,” Steve comments, smirking as he leans down to kiss  him. “What do you suggest we do until then?”

Bucky shrugs. “I was thinking maybe you’d like to have another bath with me?”

Abruptly, Steve’s smirk shifts, turning soft—as well as slightly surprised. “You’d like that?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah,” Bucky replies. “It was nice. I liked it a lot.”

“Of course we can have another bath.” Steve laughs. “Maybe this time, you’ll let me comb your hair afterwards as well?”

“I think I’d enjoy that.” Bucky glances at the floor at the other end of the room. “And after that, maybe we can eat the bagels I got us? Provided they’re still edible by then…”

“Why wait?” Steve says. “We might as well eat them in the bath.”

Bucky thinks the suggestion over. “I suppose that could work,” he admits.

“Did you buy drinks too?” Steve asks. He twists his head to glance at the corner of the paper bag that’s still visible from the bed.

“No. But I have coffee here.”

“Of course you do.”

“Hey,” Bucky pokes at Steve’s stomach. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Steve answers, just quick enough to make it sound like a ‘something’.

Bucky narrows his eyes into a suspicious squint and pokes at Steve’s abs again. However, as he does, Steve retaliates by diving for Bucky’s sides with both hands, and Bucky just has the time to catch him by the wrists before Steve’s fingers dig into his ribs.

“You do that,” Bucky threatens, “and I’ll throw your bagel into the fucking bathwater, you hear me?

“If I do what?” Steve’s grin is downright wolfish as he wiggles his fingers, a mere inch from Bucky’s skin. “Huh? What did you think I was gonna do?” He makes another half-hearted attempt to bring his hands closer, but Bucky doesn’t let him budge so much as an inch.

“Sheets, remember?” he points out. “You’re the one who didn’t want to ruin them.”

“Ugh, fine,” Steve says with an eyeroll. He relaxes, shoulders slumping, but Bucky still doesn’t let him go. When it comes to the matter of Bucky’s ticklishness, he doesn’t trust Steve enough to take any chances. Jesus, to think that after everything he’s gone through—after all the training he’s been forced to endure in the past—a poke to the ribs is all it takes to defeat him. It’s ridiculous.

“I hate you,” he declares with a sullen glare at Steve’s face. Steve doesn’t stop grinning.

“Nah,” he says. “You love me.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“Punk,” Bucky shoots back, and Steve leans down, humming as he presses his smiling lips against Bucky’s mouth.

“Jerk,” he whispers. Then he’s kissing him, and Bucky melts into the pillow just long enough to forget everything about Steve’s fingers; up until the moment they begin to rapidly spider their way up his ribs. Bucky curls his entire body away with an undignified yelp, cursing under his breath as he fends Steve off for a second time.

Goddamnit, he should've bought the little bastard a walnut bagel for breakfast.

With _peanut butter._

  



	15. 15 - Epilogue

Bucky looks up at the departure sign above his head. Around him, people are bustling around hurriedly, heading to or from their gates with bags and boarding passes held tightly in their hands. Bucky keeps a vigilant eye on them all, but he’s still more relaxed than he thought he’d be as he nonchalantly throws another glance over his shoulder.

He’s already cleared the checkpoints of the airport security with flying colors; possibly because he’s not travelling with any weapons for perhaps the first time in…well, ever.

Steve had been worried about the metal detectors, but Bucky had told him not to be. Shortcomings aside, HYDRA hadn’t been stupid enough to give their biggest asset a body part that would set off every damn alarm in the country the moment it passed by a security check. And even if it had, Bucky had been fully prepared with words like ‘war vet’ and ‘metal prosthetic’ to explain why there’s a big chunk of metal attached to his shoulder.

Nonetheless. they had still agreed that Bucky should probably head through a good twenty minutes before Steve did, to make sure they wouldn’t be together, should something go wrong.

Luckily, nothing had, and now Bucky’s waiting for Steve in the departure terminal at the spot they’d decided on beforehand. However, as he stands here, he can feel the atmosphere of the airport slowly starting to get to him. He has trouble standing still as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and everytime he sees someone running his way, his pulse skyrockets for a few seconds before he realizes that it’s not someone coming to tackle him.

When he finally spots Steve approaching from across the hall, all of that tension goes away, as if by  magic. Steve smiles when he sees him, and he even gives him a little wave that Bucky decides is simply too adorable for words. Bucky gets a kiss on the lips when Steve reaches him; short, sweet, and possibly the best kiss Bucky’s gotten all week.

“Everything alright?” Steve asks as he hoists his carry-on backpack higher onto his shoulder.

“It is now.” Bucky ignores the way Steve snorts and rolls his eyes at him for that line, because it’s the truth.

“Man, I can’t believe we’re actually doing this,” Steve says as he glances at the screen hanging above them. “I mean, I know it’s just for a few months, but… God, it feels so surreal, you know what I’m saying?”

Bucky doesn’t reply. He just smiles as he watches Steve shrug the backpack off one shoulder to rummage through its contents—for the fifth time since they’d left the apartment.

“You got your boarding pass?” Bucky asks, also for the fifth time.

“Got it,” Steve replies, still with his head halfway down the bag.

“Passport?”

“Right here.”

“And you got everything settled with Sharon before we left? With the apartment?”

“Yup,” Steve declares. He closes the backpack. “She’s got the keys, and the new guy is moving in next week.”

Bucky nods. He’d been surprised when Steve had told him he’d be renting out his apartment to some stranger while they’re gone, but he has to admit, it makes sense. Steve _owns_ the apartment, and having someone rent it while they’re abroad is a nice way to both help someone out and make a little extra money. And since Sharon had recommended this new tenant personally, Bucky can’t see why it would do any harm.

“How did she know him again?” he asks.

“He’s a friend from the military.” Steve answers. “Apparently, they had a few runs together. Sharon says he’s a good guy. Reliable.”

“Infantry?”

“Nah, some sort of pilot, I think.” Steve shrugs the backpack on with a vague tilt of his head. “To tell the truth, Sharon didn’t want to go into details. Apparently this Wilson guy got to work some pretty secret missions over there. I didn’t want to push.”

Bucky frowns. Steve catches his expression and scoffs. “Don’t worry,” he orders. “I don’t think he was involved anywhere near _your_ level of secret. Just standard military ones.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but admits that Steve’s probably right. Just because someone’s military that doesn’t automatically make them a threat. After all, the world is not nearly as full of enemies as it used to be.

“Well,” Bucky says nonchalantly, “Sharon does have good taste in friends.”

“She does,” Steve replies. Whether Steve thinks Bucky’s referring to Steve, himself, or both of them, Bucky can’t tell.

“And Wilson doesn’t mind moving into an apartment that’s been used for…?” He trails off to leave the end of the sentence hanging.

“Explicit, kinky gay sex?” Steve supplies with a knowing smirk. “Nope. Sharon warned him there might be people coming knocking, looking for me, but he said he’d handle it. And it’s only temporary after all. Just to give him time to find his own place.”

“Good,” Bucky decides. He moves in to give Steve another kiss, fitting their mouths together in a soft press of lips and purposely waiting for Steve to start leaning into it before pulling back.

“So,” he asks. “You ready?”

“No.” Steve says it with a laugh as he takes a hold of Bucky’s left hand. “But it doesn’t matter.” He kisses Bucky again, and the excitement is close to physically visible on his skin as he starts backing towards the sign pointing towards their gate. “C’mon. Let’s go to France.”

Bucky smiles at him.

And then he follows.

 

/\/\/\

 

The painting isn’t big. Barely forty by fifty inches, it’s not as impressive as many of the other paintings hanging on the walls of the Louvre Museum, but Bucky finds himself drawn to it nonetheless. Maybe because Steve’s looking at it with one of those mysterious little smiles at the corner of his mouth while his eyes shine bright and attentive as they sweep over the cracked canvas before them.

“What’s so special about this one?” Bucky asks as he takes a sip from his takeaway coffee mug. (Thank god the French have Starbucks.) There’s been several other pieces in the museum with a similar effect on his beloved partner, and even though Bucky knows that he could just as easily read the information plaques, he’d rather listen to Steve tell the story himself.

“You don’t know?” Steve asks. He sounds surprised, but when Bucky gives him the look that clearly says Steve should know better than to ask him that regarding art, Steve motions to the plaque mounted on the wall next to the painting.

Arching his eyebrow, Bucky leans in to read.

“ _‘Achilles in his Tent with Patroclus, Playing a Lyre, surprised by Ulysses and Nestor, by Giuseppe Cades’,_ ” he recites, before glancing up at the painting again. “That’s one hell of a title.”

“Uh-huh,” Steve agrees.

Bucky steps back to stand next to him once more. He looks at the painting again with a slight purse of his lips. “So this is Achilles?” he asks. “He’s smaller than I imagined.”

“Well, size isn’t everything,” Steve points out.

“Really?” Bucky says with feigned interest. “I remember you having a different opinion last night.”

“Don’t be smug,” Steve scolds.

Bucky smiles. He looks at the men depicted on the canvas again, and furrows his brow. “You know what this reminds me of?”

“What?”

“The time that guy, Trevor or whatever, came to your apartment.”

“Travis,” Steve corrects. He tilts his head to the side. “What makes you say that?”

“Well,” Bucky starts, pointing. “The guy with the harp-thingie is obviously not pleased to have been interrupted. And the guy behind him looks just about ready to start a fight with someone.”

“That guy being you, you mean?” Steve teases.

“Well, the other guy _is_ dressed in some sort of sheet,” Bucky says, “so I guess he’s ought to be you.”

“You’re saying _I’m_ Achilles?” Steve says with an amused laugh. “Now, that’s a first.”

“Why wouldn’t you be?” Bucky argues, and gives Steve a disapproving frown when all Steve does is gesture widely to the slender frame of his own body. “You’re being silly,” he declares.

“Not as silly as the guy who’s apparently dating a lyre-playing guy in a sheet.”

Bucky snorts, but when Steve reaches out to wiggle his fingers into the palm of his right hand, Bucky takes a hold of them without a fuss. They stand there, looking at the painting together while the other visitors move around them, speaking in hushed voices and regarding the other paintings in the room. None seem to be very interested in their painting, however; at least not enough to interrupt them.

“Thank you, by the way,” Steve says suddenly.

“For what?” Bucky asks.

“For this,” Steve mumbles. “For convincing me to do this, finally.”

“I just gave you a suggestion,” Bucky defends himself. He takes another sip from his coffee. “You’re the one who made the decision. I didn’t really do anything but come along.”

“You did more than that.”

Bucky glances down as Steve turns his head to snuggle it against Bucky’s shoulder.

“I was wrong, you know,” Steve says quietly.

“About what?”

“You might have a deity or two in your family tree.”

“Really?” Bucky asks. “I thought my splendid anatomy had already ruled that out.”

He snickers when Steve’s immediate response is to punch him on the shoulder, only to hiss when he realizes he just punched the wrong one.

“Now that one’s on you,” Bucky say firmly. Then he reaches down and takes a gentle hold of Steve’s hand and kisses his knuckles. Steve lets him, and he watches in silence as Bucky’s lips brush his skin.

“See?” he says softly. “There you go, again. Saving me, like some sort of fairytale prince come to life.”

“You know, I’ve seen that movie,” Bucky objects. “And really, that prince ought to learn how to hold a sword correctly if he expects to rule a kingdom one day.”

“Don’t tell me,” Steve scoffs, “ _you_ know how to swordfight?”

“Better than _he_ did, that’s for sure.”

“Feels good to know I have my own personal hero to save me, should things get bad.”

“More like save others from you,” Bucky teases. “You’ve got a horrible temper when you’re hungry, you know.”

“If you’re talking about last week,” Steve defends himself dryly, “that waiter was horrible at his job, and we had to wait almost an _hour_ for our food. Besides,” he adds with a nudge at Bucky’s rib, “isn’t that what heroes are supposed to do? Save people?

“I guess.” Bucky looks down at Steve, who’s gone back to looking at the painting even as he leans his head against Bucky’s shoulder. He’s smiling. Soft, tender. It’s an expression that’s become the norm ever since they came to France—a blissful serenity that Bucky can feel rub off on him with every passing day.

“Are you happy?” he asks quietly.

“Yes,” Steve replies, without as much as a pause. “Of course I am.” He glances up, meeting Bucky’s eye. “Are you?”

Bucky smiles. As he leans down and kisses the top of Steve’s head, he gives Steve’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“Never better.”

  
  
  


**_The End_ **

 


End file.
